UBRARYOFPRlNCap'^ 


FEB  3 


Turni  0^!C^L  SEVlNARYj 


Phillips  Brooks's  Sermons 


1st  Series 


In  Ten  Volumes 
The  Purpose  and  Use  of  Comfort 

And  Other  Sermons 

The  Candle  of  the  Lord 

And  Other  Sermons 

Sermons  Preached  in  English 
Churches 

And  Other  Sermons 
Visions  and  Tasks      And  Other  Sermons 

The  Light  of  the  World 

And  Other  Sermons 
The  Battle  of   Life      And  Other  Sermons 

Sermons  for  the  Principal  Festi- 
vals and  Fasts  of  the  Church  Year 

Edited  by  the  Rev.  John  Cotton  Brooks 
New  Starts  in  Life     And  Other  Sermons 

The  Law  of  Growth 

And  Other  Sermons 
Seeking   Life      And  Other  Sermon* 


2d  Series 

3d  Series 

4th  Series 

5th  Series 

6th  Series 

7th  Series 

8th  Series 

9th  Series 

10th  Series 

E.   P.   Button  and   Company 

31  West  23d  Street  New  York 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD 


1  he       >;,^v^.L  ^i 
Light  of  the  WorlH 


.4^. 


And  Other  Sermons 


By  the 
Rt.  Rev.  Phillips  Brooks,  D.D. 


Fifth  Series 


NEW  YORK 

EP- BUTTON  ^  COMPANY 

31  West  Twenty-Third  Street; 

I  910 


Copyright,  1890 


E.  P.  UUTTON  &  COMPANY 


tEbe  Imicltecbocfiec  preee.  tkevo  lock 


EJje  iEemorg  of  tng  Brotfjer, 

GEORGE  BROOKS, 

WHO   DIED   IN   THE    ORE  AT   WAR, 
I  DEDICATE  THESE  SERMONS. 


CONTENTS. 


SSBKON  PA«B 

I.  The  Light  of  the  World i 

II.  The  New  and  Greater  Miracle 24 

III.  The  Priority  of  God 40 

IV.  Identity  and  Variety 67 

V.  The  Seriousness  of  Life 73 

VI.  The  Choice  Young  Man 89 

VII.  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds 106 

Vin.  The  Silence  of  Christ 124 

IX.  How  to  Abound 140 

X.  How  to  be  Abased 159 

XI.  The  Christian  Church 177 

XII.  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes 194 

XIII.  The  Beloved  Physician 216 

XIV.  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep 234 

XV.  The  Wings  of  the  Seraphim 253 

XVI.  The  Planter  and  the  Rain 270 

XVII.  New  Experiences 287 

55:VIII.  The  Perfect  Faith 806 

XIX.  The  Joy  with  God 324 

XX.  The  Illumination  of  Obedience 340 

XXI.  The  Certain  End 859 


SERMONS. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WOELD. 

Then  spake  Jesus  again  unto  them,  saying,  I  am  the  Light  of  the 
World  :  he  that  followeth  me  shall  not  walk  in  Darkness,  but  shall  have 
the  Light  of  Life.  — John  viii,  12. 

Sometimes  Jesus  gathers  His  work  and  nature  up  in 
one  descriptive  word,  and  offers  it,  as  it  were  out  of  i. 
wide-open  hand,  complete  to  His  disciples.  In  such  a 
word  all  the  details  of  His  relation  to  the  soul  and  to 
the  world  are  comprehensively  included.  As  the  dis- 
ciple listens  and  receives  it,  he  feels  all  his  fragmentary 
and  scattered  experiences  drawing  together  and  round- 
ing into  unity.  As,  having  heard  it,  he  carries  it  forth 
with  him  into  his  life,  he  finds  all  future  experiences 
claiming  their  places  within  it,  and  getting  their  mean- 
ing from  it.  Such  words  of  Jesus  are  like  spheres  of 
crystal  into  which  the  world  is  gathered,  and  where  the 
past  and  future,  the  small  and  great,  may  all  be  read. 

It  seems  to  me  as  if  there  were  days  on  which  we 
wanted  to  set  one  of  these  comprehensive  words  of 
Christ  before  our  eyes  and  study  it.  There  are  days 
when  we  must  give  ourselves  to  some  particular  detail 

1     ^ 


The  Light  of  the  World. 


of  Christian  truth  or  conduct.  There  are  other  days 
when  we  are  faced  by  the  question  of  the  whole  meaning 
of  the  Christian  faith  and  its  relation  to  the  great  world 
of  life.  Vague  and  perplexed  the  soul  is  to  which  its 
faith  does  not  come  with  distinct  and  special  touches, 
pressing  directly  on  every  movement  of  its  life.  But 
poor  and  petty  is  the  soul  which  has  no  large  conception 
of  its  faith,  always  abiding  around  and  enfolding  its  de- 
tails and  giving  them  the  dignity  and  unity  they  need. 

One  of  these  comprehensive  words  of  Jesus  is  our  text 
this  morning. 

I  want  to  ask  you  then  to  think  with  me  what  Jesus 
means  when  He  declares  Himself  to  be  the  "  Light  of  the 
World  "  or  the  "  Light  of  Life. "  The  words  come  down 
to  us  out  of  the  old  Hebrew  temple  where  He  spoke 
them  first.  They  pierce  into  the  centre  of  our  mod- 
ern life.  Nay,  they  have  done  much  to  make  our  mod- 
ern life,  and  to  make  it  dilferent  from  the  old  Hebrew 
temple  where  they  were  spoken  first.  It  will  be  good 
indeed  if  we  can  feel  something  of  the  power  that  is 
in  them,  and  understand  how  clear  is  the  conception  of 
Life  which  they  include,  how  far  our  present  Christian- 
ity is  an  embodiment  of  that  conception,  how  far  it  fails 
of  it,  how  certain  it  is  in  being  ever  truer  and  truer 
to  that  conception  that  the  faith  of  Christ  must  come 
to  be  the  Master  of  the  soul  and  of  the  world. 

We  may  begin,  then,  by  considering  what  would  be 
the  idea  of  Christ  and  His  relation  to  the  world  which 
we  should  get  if  this  were  all  we  knew  of  Him, —  if  He 
as  yet  had  told  us  nothing  of  Himself  but  what  is 
wrapned  up  in  these  rich  and  simple  words,    "I  am 


The  Light  of  the  World. 


the  Light  of  the  World,"  «I  am  the  Light  of  Life." 
They  send  us  instantly  abroad  into  the  world  of  Nature. 
They  set  us  on  the  hill-top  watching  the  sunrise  as  it 
fills  the  east  with  glory.  They  show  us  the  great  plain 
flooded  and  beaten  and  quivering  with  the  noon-daj 
sun.  They  hush  and  elevate  us  with  the  mystery  and 
sweetness  and  suggestiveness  of  the  evening's  glow. 
There  could  be  no  image  so  abundant  in  its  meaning ;  no 
fact  plucked  from  the  world  of  Nature  could  have  such 
vast  variety  of  truth  to  tell ;  and  yet  one  meaning  shines 
out  from  the  depth  of  the  figure  and  irradiates  all  its 
messages.  They  all  are  true  by  its  truth.  What  is  that 
meaning  ?  It  is  the  essential  richness  and  possibility 
of  the  world  and  its  essential  belonging  to  the  sun. 
Light  may  be  great  and  glorious  in  itself.  The  sun 
may  be  tumultuous  with  fiery  splendor ;  the  atmosphere 
may  roll  in  billows  of  glory  for  its  million  miles ;  but 
light  as  related  to  earth  has  its  significance  in  the 
earth's  possibilities.  The  sun,  as  the  world's  sun,  is 
nothing  without  the  world,  on  which  it  shines,  and 
whose  essential  character  and  glory  it  displays. 

Do  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  When  the  sun  rose  this 
morning  it  found  the  world  here.  It  did  not  make  the 
world.  It  did  not  fling  forth  on  its  earliest  ray  this 
solid  globe,  which  was  not  and  would  not  have  been  but 
for  the  sun's  rising.  What  did  it  do  ?  It  found  the 
world  in  darkness,  torpid  and  heavy  and  asleep ;  with 
powers  all  wrapped  up  in  sluggishness ;  with  life  that 
was  hardly  better  or  more  alive  than  death.  The  sun 
found  this  great  sleeping  world  and  woke  it.  It  bade 
it  be  itself.     It  quickened  every  slow  and  sluggish  fac- 


Tlie  Light  of  the   World. 


ulty.  It  called  to  the  dull  streams,  and  said,  "Be 
quick ; "  to  the  dull  birds  and  bade  them  sing ;  to  the 
dull  fields  and  made  them  grow ;  to  the  dull  men  and 
bade  them  talk  and  think  and  work.  It  flashed  electric 
invitation  to  the  whole  mass  of  sleeping  power  which 
really  was  the  world,  and  summoned  it  to  action.  It 
did  not  make  the  world.  It  did  not  sweep  a  dead  world 
off  and  set  a  live  world  in  its  place.  It  did  not  start 
another  set  of  processes  unlike  those  which  had  been 
sluggishly  moving  in  the  darkness.  It  poured  strength 
into  the  essential  processes  which  belonged  to  the  very 
nature  of  the  earth  which  it  illuminated.  It  glorified, 
intensified,  fulfilled  the  earth;  so  that  with  the  sun's 
work  incomplete,  with  part  of  the  earth  illuminated  and 
the  rest  lying  in  the  darkness  still,  we  can  most  easily 
conceive  of  the  dark  region  looking  in  its  half -life  drow- 
sily over  to  the  region  which  was  flooded  with  light,  and 
saying,  "  There,  there  is  the  true  earth !  That  is  the  real 
planet.  In  light  and  not  in  darkness  the  earth  truly 
is  itself." 

That  is  the  Parable  of  the  Light.  And  now  it  seems 
to  me  to  be  of  all  importance  to  remember  and  assert 
all  that  to  be  distinctly  a  true  parable  of  Christ.  He 
says  it  is :  "I  am  the  Light  of  the  World. "  A  thousand 
things  that  means.  A  thousand  subtle,  mystic  mira- 
cles of  deep  and  intricate  relationship  between  Christ 
and  humanity  must  be  enfolded  in  those  words;  but 
over  and  behind  and  within  all  other  meanings,  it  means 
this,  —  the  essential  richness  and  possibility  of  human- 
ity and  its  essential  belonging  to  Divinity.  Christ  is 
unspeakably  great  and  glorious  in  Himself.     The  glory 


The  Light  of  the  World. 


which  He  had  with  His  Father  "  before  the  world  was, " 
of  that  we  can  only  meditate  and  wonder ;  but  the  glory 
which  He  has  had  since  the  world  was,  the  glory 
which  He  has  had  in  relation  to  the  world,  is  all 
bound  up  with  the  world's  possibilities,  has  all  con- 
sisted in  the  utterance  and  revelation  and  fulfilment  of 
capacities  which  were  in  the  very  nature  of  the  world 
on  which  His  Light  has  shone. 

Do  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  Christ  rises  on  a  soul. 
Christ  rises  on  the  world.  I  speak  in  crude  and  super- 
ficial language.  For  the  moment  I  make  no  account  of 
the  deep  and  sacred  truth,  —  the  truth  which  alone  is 
finally  and  absolutely  true,  —  that  Christ  has  always 
been  with  every  soul  and  all  the  world.  I  talk  in  crude 
and  superficial  words,  and  say  Christ  comes  to  any  soul 
or  to  the  world.  What  is  it  that  happens  ?  If  the  fig- 
ure of  the  Light  is  true,  Christ  when  He  comes  finds 
the  soul  or  the  world  really  existent,  really  having 
within  itself  its  holiest  capabilities,  really  moving, 
though  dimly  and  darkly,  in  spite  of  all  its  hindrances, 
in  its  true  directions;  and  what  He  does  for  it  is  to 
quicken  it  through  and  through,  to  sound  the  bugle  of 
its  true  life  in  its  ears,  to  make  it  feel  the  nobleness  of 
movements  which  have  seemed  to  it  ignoble,  the  hope- 
fulness of  impulses  which  have  seemed  hopeless,  to  bid 
it  be  itself.  The  little  lives  which  do  in  little  ways 
that  which  the  life  of  Jesus  does  completely,  the  noble 
characters  of  which  we  think  we  have  the  right  to  say 
that  they  are  the  lights  of  human  history,  this  is  true 
also  of  them.  They  reveal  and  they  inspire.  The 
worthless  becomes  full  of  worth,  the  insignificant  be- 


The  Light  of  the  World. 


comes  full  of  meaning  at  their  touch.  They  faintly 
catch  the  feeble  reflection  of  His  life  who  is  the  true 
Light  of  the  World,  the  real  illumination  and  inspira-" 
tion  of  humanity. 

But  metaphors  bewilder  and  embarrass  us  when  once 
we  have  caught  their  general  meaning,  and  they  begin 
to  tempt  us  to  follow  them  out  into  details  into  which 
they  were  not  meant  to  lead  us.  Let  us  then  leave  the 
figure,  and  try  to  grasp  the  truth  in  its  complete  sim- 
plicity and  see  what  some  of  its  applications  are.  The 
truth  is  that  every  higher  life  to  which  man  comes,  and 
^  y  especially  the  highest  life  in  Christ,  is  in  the  true  line 
of  man's  humanity;  there  is  no  transportation  to  a  for- 
eign region.  There  is  the  quickening  and  fulfilling  of 
what  man  by  the  very  essence  of  his  nature  is.  The 
more  man  becomes  irradiated  with  Divinity,  the  more, 
not  the  less,  truly  he  is  man.  The  fullest  Christian  ex- 
perience is  simply  the  fullest  life.  To  enter  into  it 
therefore  is  no  wise  strange.  The  wonder  and  the  un- 
naturalness  is  that  any  child  of  God  should  live  outside 
of  it,  and  so  in  all  his  life  should  never  be  himself.   . 

When  I  repeat  such  truths  they  seem  self-evident. 
No  man,  I  think,  denies  them ;  and  yet  I  feel  the  absence 
of  their  power  all  through  men's  struggles  for  the  Chris- 
tian life.  A  sense  of  foreignness  and  unnaturalness  and 
strangeness  lies  like  a  fog  across  the  entrance  of  the 
divine  country ;  a  certain  wonder  whether  I,  a  man,  have 
any  business  there ;  an  unreality  about  it  all ;  a  break 
and  gulf  between  what  the  world  is  and  what  we  know 
it  ought  to  be, —  all  these  are  elements  in  the  obscurit}', 
the  feebleness,  the  vague  remoteness,  of  religion. 


The  Light  of  the  World. 


And  yet  how  clear  the  Bible  is  about  it  all !  How 
clear  Christ  is !  It  is  redemption  and  fulfilment  which 
he  comes  to  bring  to  man.  Those  are  his  words.  There 
is  a  true  humanity  which  is  to  be  restored,  and  all  whose 
unattained  possibilities  are  to  be  filled  out.  There  is  no 
human  affection,  of  fatherhood,  brotherhood,  child- 
hood,  which  is  not  capable  of  expressing  divine  rela-' 
tions.  Man  is  a  child  of  God,  for  whom  his  Father's' 
house  is  waiting.  The  whole  creation  is  groaning  and 
travailing  till  man  shall  be  complete.  Christ  comes 
not  to  destroy  but  to  fulfil.  What  is  the  spirit  of  such 
words  as  those  ?  Is  it  not  all  a  claiming  of  man  through 
all  his  life  for  God  ?  Is  it  not  an  assertion  that  just  so 
far  as  he  is  not  God's  he  is  not  truly  man  ?  Is  it  not  a 
declaration  that  whatever  he  does  in  his  true  human 
nature,  undistorted,  unperverted,  is  divinely  done,  and 
therefore  that  the  divine  perfection  of  his  life  will  be 
in  the  direction  which  these  efforts  of  his  nature  indi- 
cate and  prophesy  ? 

I  bid  you  to  think  whether  to  clearly  believe  this 
would  not  make  the  world  more  full  of  courage  and  of 
hope.  If  you  could  thoroughly  believe  that  the  divine 
life  to  which  you  were  called  was  the  completion,  and 
not  the  abrogation  and  surrender,  of  your  humanity, 
would  you  not  be  more  strong  and  eager  in  your  en- 
trance on  it  ?  If  below  the  superficial  currents  which 
so  tremendously  draw  us  away  from  righteousness  and 
truth  we  always  felt  the  tug  and  majestic  pressure  of 
the  profoundest  currents  setting  toward  righteousness 
and  truth,  would  not  our  souls  be  stronger?  Shall  we 
not  think  that  ?     Shall  we  leave  it  to  doubting  lips  to 


8  Tke  Light  of  the  World. 

tell  about  the  "tendency  which  makes  for  righteous- 
ness "  ?  Shall  we  not  tell  of  it,  —  we  who  believe  in 
Christ,  who  made  in  His  very  being  the  declaration  of 
the  nativeness  of  righteousness  to  man,  who  bade  all 
generations  see  in  Him  how  the  Son  of  Man  is  the  Son 
of  God  in  the  foundation  and  intention  of  His  life  ? 

Let  us  see  how  all  this  is  true  in  various  applications. 
Apply  it  first  to  the  standards  of  character.  We  talk  of 
Christian  character  as  if  it  were  some  separate  and  spe- 
cial thing  unattempted,  unsuggested  by  the  human  soul 
until  it  became  aware  of  Christ.  There  would  come  a 
great  flood  of  light  and  reality  into  it  all  if  we  knew 
thoroughly  that  the  Christian  character  is  nothing  but 
the  completed  human  character.  The  Christian  is  noth- 
ing but  the  true  man.  Nothing  but  the  true  man,  do  I 
say  ?  As  if  that  were  a  little  thing !  As  if  man,  with 
any  inflow  of  divinity,  could  be,  could  wish  to  be  any- 
thing more  or  different  from  man !  But  we  imagine  a 
certain  vague  array  of  qualities  which  are  to  belong  to 
the  Christian  life  which  are  not  the  intrinsic  human 
qualities ;  and  so  our  Christian  type  becomes  unreal,  and 
our  human  type  loses  its  dignity  and  greatness.  Human 
courage,  human  patience,  human  trustiness,  human  hu- 
mility,—  those  filled  with  the  fire  of  (xod  make  the  graces 
of  the  Christian  life.  We  are  still  haunted  by  the  false 
old  distinction  of  the  natural  virtues  and  the  Christian 
graces.  The  Christian  graces  are  nothing  but  the  nat- 
ural virtues  held  up  into  the  light  of  Christ.  They  are 
made  of  the  same  stuff;  they  are  lifted  along  the  same 
lines ;  but  they  have  found  their  pinnacle.  They  have 
caught  the  illumination  which  their  souls  desire.     Man- 


Tlie  Light  of  the  World. 


liness  has  not  been  changed  into  Godliness;  it  has 
fulfilled  itself  in  Godliness. 

As  soon  as  we  understand  all  this,  then  what  a  great, 
clear  thing  salvation  becomes.  Its  one  idea  is  health. 
Not  rescue  from  suffering,  not  plucking  out  of  fire,  not 
deportation  to  some  strange,  beautiful  region  where  the 
winds  blow  with  other  influences  and  the  skies  drop  with 
other  dews,  not  the  enchaining  of  the  spirit  with  some 
unreal  celestial  spell,  but  health,  —  the  cool,  calm  vigor 
of  the  normal  human  life ;  the  making  of  the  man  to  be 
himself;  the  calling  up  out  of  the  depths  of  his  being 
and  the  filling  with  vitality  of  that  self  which  is  truly 
he,  —  this  is  salvation ! 

Of  course  it  all  assumes  that  in  this  mixture  of  good 
and  evil  which  we  call  Man,  this  motley  and  medley 
which  we  call  human  character,  it  is  the  good  and  not 
the  evil  which  is  the  foundation  color  of  the  whole. 
Man  is  a  son  of  God  on  whom  the  Devil  has  laid  his 
hand,  not  a  child  of  the  Devil  whom  God  is  trying  to 
steal.  That  is  the  first  truth  of  all  religion.  That  is 
what  Christ  is  teaching  everywhere  and  always.  "  We 
called  the  chess-board  white,  we  call  it  black ; "  but  it 
is,  this  chess-board  of  our  human  life,  white  not  black, 

—  black  spotted  on  white,  not  white  spotted  upon 
black. 

It  is  easy  to  make  this  question  of  precedence  and  in- 
trusion seem  unimportant.  "  If  man  stands  here  to-day 
half  bad,  half  good,  what  matters  it  how  it  came  about, 

—  whether  the  good  intruded  on  the  bad,  or  the  bad 
upon  the  good  ?  Here  is  the  present  actual  condition. 
Is  not  that  enough  ?  "    No,  surely  it  is  not.     Everything 


10  Tlie  Light  of  the  World. 

depends  in  the  great  world  upon  whether  Peace  or  War 
is  the  Intruder  and  the  Rebel,  upon  whether  Liberty  or 
Slavery  is  the  ideal  possessor  of  the  field.  Everything 
depends  in  personal  life  upon  whether  Cowardice  has 
invaded  the  rightful  realm  of  Courage,  or  Courage  has 
pitched  its  white  tent  on  dusky  fields  which  belong  to 
Cowardice,  or  whether  Truth  or  Falsehood  is  the  ulti- 
mate king  to  whom  the  realm  belongs.  The  great  truth 
of  Redemption,  the  great  idea  of  Salvation,  is  that  the 
realm  belongs  to  Truth,  that  the  Lie  is  everywhere  and 
always  an  intruder  and  a  foe.  He  came  in,  therefore 
he  may  be  driven  out.  When  he  is  driven  out,  and 
man  is  purely  man,  then  man  is  saved.  It  is  the  glory 
and  preciousness  of  the  first  mysterious,  poetic  chapters 
of  Genesis  that  they  are  radiant  through  all  their  sad- 
ness with  that  truth. 

Does  this  make  smaller  or  less  important  that  great 
Power  of  God  whereby  the  human  life  passes  from  the 
old  condition  to  the  new,  —  the  power  of  conversion  ? 
Certainly  not !  What  task  could  be  more  worthy  of  the 
Father's  power  and  love  than  this  assertion  and  fulfil- 
ment of  His  child  ?  All  of  our  Christian  thinking  and 
talking  has  been  and  is  haunted  by  a  certain  idea  of 
failure  and  recommencement.  Man  is  a  failure,  so  there 
shall  be  a  new  attempt;  and  in  place  of  the  man  we 
will  make  tha  Christian!  There  is  nothing  of  that 
tone  about  what  Jesus  says.  The  Christian  to  Jesus  is 
the  man.  The  Christian,  to  all  who  think  the  thought  of 
Jesus  after  Him,  is  the  perfected  and  completed  man. 

Just  see  what  this  involves.  Hear  with  what  natural- 
ness it  clothes  the  invitations  of  the  Gospel.     They  are 


Tht  Light  of  tU  World.  11 

not  strange  summons  to  some  distant,  unknown  land; 
they  are  God's  call  to  you  to  be  yourself.  They  ap- 
peal to  a  homesickness  in  your  own  heart  and  make  it 
their  confederate.  That  you  should  be  the  thing  you 
have  been,  and  not  be  that  better  thing,  that  new  man 
which  Is  the  oldest  man,  the  first  type  and  image  of  your 
being,  is  unnatural  and  awful.  The  world  in  the  new 
light  of  the  Gospel  expects  it  of  you,  is  longing  for  it. 
The  creation,  in  Saint  Paul's  great  phrase,  is  groaning 
and  travailing,  waiting  for  the  manifestation  of  this 
child  of  God  which  is  hidden  in  your  life. 

And  all  this  vindicates  itself  by  a  mysterious  and  beau- 
tiful familiarity  in  the  new  life  when  you  have  begun 
to  live  it.  With  confidence  I  know  that  I  could  appeal 
to  the  experience  of  many  of  you  who  hear  me,  to  rec- 
ognize what  I  mean.  I  take  a  plant  whose  home  is  in 
the  tropics,  but  which  has  grown  to  stunted  life  amid 
the  granite  of  Vermont.  I  carry  it  and  set  it  where  its 
nature  essentially  belongs.  Does  it  not  know  the  warm 
earth,  and  does  not  the  warm  earth  know  it  ?  Do  not 
the  palm-trees,  and  the  sky  which  it  sees  through  their 
broad  leaves,  and  the  warmer  stars  which  glorify  the 
sky  at  night  speak  to  the  amazed  but  satisfied  heart  of 
the  poor  plant  in  tones  which  it  understands  ?  And 
when  a  soul  is  set  there  where  its  nature  always  has  be- 
longed, in  the  obedience  of  God,  in  the  dear  love  of 
Christ,  does  it  not  know  the  new  life  which  embraces 
it  ?  Ah,  it  has  lived  in  it  always  in  the  idea  of  its 
being,  in  the  conception  of  existence  which  has  been 
always  at  its  heart.  It  has  walked  the  great  halls  of 
the  divine  obedience.     It  has  stood  by  this  river  of  di- 


12  The  Light  of  the  World. 

vine  refreshment.  It  has  seen  these  great  prospects  of 
the  celestial  hope.  It  has  climbed  to  these  hill-tops  of 
prophetic  vision.  They  are  not  wholly  strange.  Noth- 
ing is  wholly  strange  to  any  man  when  he  becomes  it, 
which  it  has  always  been  in  his  nature  to  become.  Be- 
cause it  has  always  been  in  man  to  become  the  fulfilled 
man,  which  is  the  Christian,  therefore  for  a  man  to  have 
become  a  Christian  is  never  wholly  strange.  \ 

See  also  here  what  a  true  ground  there  is  for  the  ap- 
peal which  you  desire  to  make  to  other  souls.  It  must 
be  from  the  naturalness  of  the  new  life  that  you  call  out 
to  your  brethren.  You  must  claim  your  brother  for 
the  holiness  to  which  his  nature  essentially  belongs. 
" Come  home !  "  "  Come  home ! "  "I  have  found  the 
homestead ! "  "I  have  found  the  Father ! "  "I  have 
found  the  true  manhood ! "  ''I  have  found  what  you  and 
I  and  all  men  were  made  to  be ! "  So  the  soul  out  of 
the  tropics  cries  out  to  its  brother  souls  still  lingering 
among  the  granite  hills,  and  the  voice  has  all  the  per- 
suasiveness of  Nature.  The  soft  southern  winds  which 
bring  it  tell  the  souls  to  which  it  comes  that  it  is  true. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  attraction  which  draw,  two 
sorts  of  fascination  which  hold,  human  nature  every- 
where, —  the  attraction  of  the  natural  and  the  attrac- 
tion of  the  unnatural.  The  attraction  of  the  natural 
everywhere  is  healthiest  and  highest.  The  attraction 
of  the  natural  is  the  true  attraction  of  Religion,  — most 
of  all,  the  attraction  of  the  Christian  Gospel. 

And  yet  again  this  makes  the  higher  life  intelligible, 
and  so  makes  it  real.  This  alone  makes  such  a  thing 
as  Christian  Manliness  conceivable.     Christian  Unman- 


Tlu  Light  of  the  World.  13 

liness  is  what  a  great  many  of  men's  pious,  earnest 
struggles  have  been  seeking.  If  the  saint  on  to  all 
eternity  is  to  be  the  ever-ripening  man,  never  changing 
into  any  new  and  unknown  thing  which  he  was  not  be- 
fore, never  to  all  eternity  unfolding  one  capacity  which 
was  not  in  the  substance  of  his  humanity  from  its  crea- 
tion, then  it  follows  that  the  most  celestial  and  trans- 
cendent goodnesses  must  still  be  one  in  kind  with  the 
familiar  virtues  which  sometimes  in  their  crude  and 
earthly  shapes  seem  low  and  commonplace.  Courage 
in  all  the  worlds  is  the  same  courage.  Truth  before  the 
throne  of  God  is  the  same  thing  as  when  neighbor  talks 
with  neighbor  on  the  street.  Mercy  will  grow  tenderer 
and  finer,  but  will  be  the  old  blessed  balm  of  life  in  the 
fields  of  eternity  that  it  was  in  your  workshop  and  your 
home.  Unselfishness  will  expand  and  richen  till  it  en- 
folds the  life  like  sunshine,  but  it  will  be  the  same  self- 
denial,  opening  into  a  richer  self-indulgence,  which  it 
was  when  it  first  stole  in  with  one  thin  sunbeam  on  the 
startled  soul.  There  is  no  new  world  of  virtues  in  any 
heaven  or  in  any  heavenly  experience  of  life.  God  is 
good  and  man  is  good ;  and  as  man  becomes  more  good, 
he  becomes  not  merely  more  like  God,  but  more  himself. 
As  he  becomes  more  godly,  he  becomes  more  manly  too. 
It  is  so  hard  for  us  to  believe  in  the  Mystery  of  Man. 
"  Behold  man  is  this, "  we  say,  shutting  down  some  near 
gate  which  falls  only  just  beyond,  quite  in  sight  of, 
what  human  nature  already  has  attained.  If  man  would 
go  beyond  that  he  must  be  something  else  than  man. 
And  just  then  something  breaks  the  gate  away,  and  lo, 
far  out  beyond  where  we  can  see  stretches  the  Mystery 


14  The  Light  of  the  World. 

of  Man.  The  beautiful,  the  awful  mystery  of  man! 
To  him,  to  man,  all  lower  lines  have  climbed,  and  hav- 
ing come  to  him,  have  found  a  field  where  evolution 
may  go  on  forever. 

The  mystery  of  man !  How  Christ  believed  in  that ! 
Oh,  my  dear  friends,  he  who  does  not  believe  in  that 
cannot  enter  into  the  full  glory  of  the  Incarnation,  can- 
not really  believe  in  Christ.  Where  the  mysterious 
reach  of  manhood  touches  the  divine,  there  Christ  ap- 
pears. No  mere  development  of  human  nature  outgoing 
any  other  reach  that  it  has  made,  yet  still  not  incapable 
of  being  matched,  perhaps  of  being  overcome ;  not  that, 
not  that,  —  unique  and  separate  forever,  —  but  possible, 
because  of  this  same  mystery  of  man  in  which  the  least 
of  us  has  share.  To  him  who  knows  the  hither  edges 
of  that  mystery  in  his  own  life,  the  story  of  how  in,  on, 
at  its  depths  it  should  be  able  to  receive  and  to  contain 
divinity  cannot  seem  incredible ;  may  I  not  say,  cannot 
seem  strange  ? 

Men  talk  about  the  Christhood,  and  say,  "  How  strange 
it  is !  Strange  that  Christ  should  have  been,  —  strange 
that  Christ  should  have  suffered  for  mankind. "  I  can- 
not see  that  so  we  most  magnify  Him  or  bring  Him 
nearest  to  us.  Once  feel  the  mystery  of  man  and  is  it 
strange  ?  Once  think  it  possible  that  God  should  fill  a 
humanity  with  Himself,  once  see  humanity  capable  of 
being  filled  with  God,  and  can  you  conceive  of  His  not 
doing  it  ?  Must  there  not  be  an  Incarnation  ?  Do  you 
not  instantly  begin  to  search  earth  for  the  holy  steps  ? 
Once  think  it  possible  that  Christ  can,  and  are  you  not 
sure  that  Christ  must  give  himself  for  our  Redemption  ? 


The  Light  of  the  World.  15 

80  only,  when  it  seems  inevitable  and  natural,  does  the 
Christhood  become  our  pattern.  Then  only  does  it  shine 
on  the  mountain-top  up  toward  which  we  can  feel  the 
low  lines  of  our  low  life  aspiring.  The  Son  of  God  is 
also  the  Son  of  Man.  Then  in  us,  the  sons  of  men, 
there  is  the  key  to  the  secret  of  His  being  and  His  work. 
Know  Christ  that  you  may  know  yourself.  But,  oh, 
also  know  yourself  that  you  may  know  Christ! 

I  think  to  every  Christian  there  come  times  when  all 
the  strangeness  disappears  from  the  divine  humanity 
which  stands  radiant  at  the  centre  of  his  faith.  He 
finds  it  hard  to  believe  in  himself  and  in  his  brethren 
perhaps ;  but  that  Christ  should  be  and  should  be  Christ 
appears  the  one  reasonable,  natural,  certain  thing  in  all 
the  universe.  In  Him  all  broken  lines  unite ;  in  Him 
all  scattered  sounds  are  gathered  into  haiviony;  and 
out  of  the  consummate  certainty  of  Him,  the  soul 
comes  back  to  find  the  certainty  of  common  things 
which  the  lower  faith  holds,  which  advancing  faith 
loses,   and  then  finds  again  in  Christ. 

How  every  truth  attains  to  its  enlargement  and  real- 
ity in  this  great  truth,  —  that  the  soul  of  man  carries  the 
highest  possibilities  within  itself,  and  that  what  Christ 
does  for  it  is  to  kindle  and  call  forth  these  possibilities 
to  actual  existence.  We  do  not  understand  the  Church 
until  we  understand  this  truth.  Seen  in  its  light  the 
Christian  Church  is  nothing  in  the  world  except  the 
promise  and  prophecy  and  picture  of  what  the  world  in 
its  idea  is  and  always  has  been,  and  in  its  completion 
paust  visibly  become.  It  is  the  primary  crystalization  of 
humanity.  *   It  is  no  favored,  elect  body  caught  from  the 


16  The  Light  of  the.  World. 

ruin,  given  a  salvation  in  which  the  rest  can  have  no 
part.  It  is  an  attempt  to  realize  the  universal  possibil- 
ity. All  men  are  its  potential  members.  The  strange 
thing  for  any  man  is  not  that  he  should  be  within  it, 
but  that  he  should  be  without  it.  Every  good  move- 
ment of  any  most  secular  sort  is  a  struggle  toward  it, 
a  part  of  its  activity.  All  the  world's  history  is  eccle- 
siastical history,  is  the  story  of  the  success  and  failure, 
the  advance  and  hindrance  of  the  ideal  humanity,  the 
Church  of  the  living  God.  Well  may  the  prophet  poet 
greet  it,  — 

"  0  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  ;  looking  forth 
As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision  I  behold 
Pure,  just,  and  free  the  Church  of  Christ  on  earth,  — 
The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age  foretold." 

Tell  me,  my  friends,  can  we  not  all  think  that  we  see  a 
progress  and  elevation  in  men's  ideas  about  their  souls' 
conversion  which  would  seem  to  show  an  entrance  into 
the  power  of  this  truth  ?  In  old  times  more  than  to- 
day he  who  entered  into  the  new  life  of  Christ  thought 
of  himself  as  rescued,  snatched  from  the  wreck  of  a 
ruined  and  sinking  world,  given  an  exceptional  privi- 
lege of  safety.  To-day  more  than  in  old  times  the  saved 
soul  looks  with  a  delighted  and  awe-struck  wonder  into 
his  new  experience,  and  sees  in  it  the  true  and  natural 
destiny  of  all  mankind.  "Lo,  because  I  am  this,  I 
know  that  all  men  may  be  it.  God  has  but  shown  me 
in  my  soul's  experience  of  what  all  souls  are  capable." 
And  so  the  new  life  does  not  separate  the  soul  from, 
but  brings  it  more  deeply  into  sympathy  with,  all 
humanity. 


Tlie  Light  of  the  World.  17 


I  believe  that  here  also  is  the  real  truth  and  the 
final  satisfaction  of  men's  minds  as  concerns  the  Bible. 
As  the  spiritual  life  with  which  the  Bible  deals  is  the 
flower  of  human  life,  so  the  Book  which  deals  with  it 
is  the  flower  of  human  books.  But  it  is  not  thereby  an 
unhuman  book.  It  is  the  most  human  of  all  books.  In 
it  is  seen  the  everlasting  struggle  of  the  man-life  to  ful- 
fil itself  in  God.  All  books  in  which  that  universal 
struggle  of  humanity  is  told  are  younger  brothers, —  less 
clear  and  realized  and  developed  utterances  of  that  which 
is  so  vivid  in  the  history  of  the  sacred  people  and  is  per- 
fect in  the  picture  of  the  divine  Man.  I  will  not  be  puz- 
zled, but  rejoice  when  I  find  in  all  the  sacred  books,  in  all 
deep,  serious  books  of  every  sort,  foregleams  and  adum- 
brations of  the  lights  and  shadows  which  lie  distinct 
upon  the  Bible  page.  I  will  seek  and  find  the  assur- 
ance that  my  Bible  is  inspired  of  God  not  in  virtue  of 
its  distance  from,  but  in  virtue  of  its  nearness  to,  the 
human  experience  and  heart.  It  is  in  that  experience 
and  heart  that  the  real  inspiration  of  God  is  given,  and 
thence  it  issues  into  the  written  book :  — 

"Out  of  the  heart  of  Nature  rolled 
The  Burdens  of  the  Bible  old. 
The  Litanies  of  nations  came 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame  ; 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below 
The  Canticles  of  love  and  woe." 

That  book  is  most  inspired  which  most  worthily  and 
deeply  tells  the  story  of  the  most  inspired  life. 

Is  there  not  here  the  light  of  every  darkness  and  the 
key  to  every  riddle  ?     The  missionary  goes  into  a  hea- 


18  The  Light  of  the  World. 

* 

then  land.  What  shall  he  make  of  what  he  finds  there  ? 
Shall  he  not  see  in  it  all  the  raw  material  and  the  sug- 
gested potency  of  that  divine  life  which  he  knows  that 
it  is  the  rightful  condition  of  the  Sons  of  God  to  live  ? 
Shall  he  not  be  eager  and  ingenious,  rather  than  reluc- 
tant, to  find  and  recognize  and  proclaim  the  truth  that 
the  Father  has  left  Himself  without  witness  in  no  home 
where  His  children  live  ?  As  in  the  crudest  social  ways 
and  habits  of  the  savage  islanders  he  sees  the  begin- 
nings and  first  efforts  toward  the  most  perfect  and  elab- 
orate civilizations  which  the  world  contains, — the  germs 
of  constitutions,  the  promise  of  senates  and  cabinets 
and  treaties,  —  so  in  the  ignorant  and  half -brutal  faiths 
shall  he  not  discover  the  upward  movement  of  the  soul 
to  which  he  shall  then  delight  to  offer  all  the  rich  light 
of  the  teaching  which  has  come  to  his  centuries  ^of 
Christian  faith,  saying,  "Lo,  this  is  what  it  means: 
Whom  you  are  ignorantly  worshipping,  Him  declare  I 
unto  you  "  ? 

Among  all  the  philosophies  of  history  where  is  there 
one  that  matches  with  this  simple  story  that  man  is  the 
child  of  God,  forever  drawn  to  his  Father,  beaten  back 
from  Him  by  base  waves  of  passion,  sure  to  come  to  Him 
in  the  end.  There  is  no  philosophy  of  historj  which 
ever  has  been  written  like  the  Parable  of  the  Prodigal 
Son.  The  first  idea,  the  wanton  wandering,  the  discon- 
tent, the  brave  return,  the  cordial  welcome,  —  all  are 
there.  It  is  the  history  of  man's  action  and  man's 
thought;  it  is  the  story  of  his  institutions  and  of  his 
ideas;  it  holds  the  explanation  of  the  past  and  the 
promise  of  the  future;  its  beginning  is  where  the  first 


The  Light  of  the  World.  19 

conception  of  what  man  shall  be  lies  in  the  heart  of  the 
Creative  Power ;  its  end  is  in  that  endless  life  which 
man,  having  been  reconciled  to  God  and  come  to  the 
completion  of  his  idea,  is  to  live  in  his  Father's  house 
forever. 

Do  we  ask  ourselves,  as  well  we  may,  at  what  point 
in  that  long  history  the  world  is  standing  in  this  rich 
and  interesting  period  in  which  we  live  ?  Who  shall 
precisely  say  ?  But  in  the  wonderful  story  of  the  Prodi- 
gal Son  must  there  not  have  been  one  moment  when  at 
the  very  height  of  the  revel  there  came  a  taste  of  bit- 
terness into  the  wine,  and  when  the  faces  of  the  harlots, 
in  some  gleam  of  fresh  morning  sunlight  which  broke 
into  the  hot  and  glaring  chamber,  seemed  tawdry  and 
false  and  cruel  ?  Must  there  not  have  been  a  moment 
somewhere  then,  perhaps  just  when  the  carouse  seemed 
most  tempestuous  and  hopeless,  a  moment  when  the 
heart  of  the  exile  turned  to  his  home,  and  the  life  with 
his  father  seemed  so  strong  and  simple  and  natural  and 
real,  so  cool  and  sweet  and  true  and  healthy,  that  the 
miserable  tumult  and  the  gaudy  glare  about  him  for  a 
moment  became  unreal  and  lost  its  hold  ?  Much,  much 
had  yet  to  come,  —  the  poverty  and  swine  and  husks,  — 
before  the  boy  gathererk  himself  together  and  arose  and 
said,  "  I  will  go  to  my  father ; "  but  the  tide  was  turned, 
the  face  was  set  homeward,  after  that  one  moment  of 
true  sight  of  the  true  light  in  the  hall  of  unnatural 
revel  and  resplendent  sin.  I  sometimes  think  that 
there,  in  many  ways  just  there,  is  where  our  age  is 
standing  with  its  startled  and  bewildered  face. 

I  may  be  wrong  or  right  about  our  age,   I  may  be 


20  The  Light  of  the  World. 

wrong  or  right  about  many  of  the  ways  in  which  it  has 
appeared  to  me  as  if  the  truth  which  I  have  tried  to 
preach  to  you  to-day  touches  the  great  problems  of  re- 
ligion and  of  life.  But  now  I  turn  to  you,  young  men 
and  women,  earnest  and  brave  and  hopeful  —  many  of 
you  also  sorely  perplexed  and  puzzled.  What  does  this 
truth  mean  for  you  ?  Does  it  not  mean  everything  for 
you  if  Truth  and  Courage  and  Unselfishness  and  Good- 
ness are  indeed  natural  to  man  and  all  Evil  is  unnatu- 
ral and  foreign  ? 

There  is  indeed  a  superficial  and  a  deeper  nature. 
I  am  talking  of  the  deeper  nature.  I  am  talking  of  the 
nature  which  belongs  to  every  one  of  us  as  the  child  of 
God.  I  am  talking,  not  of  the  waves  which  may  be 
blown  this  way  or  that  way  upon  the  surface,  but  of  the 
great  tide  which  is  heaving  shoreward  down  below. 

The  man  who  lives  in  that  deeper  nature,  the  man 
who  believes  himself  the  Son  of  God,  is  not  surprised 
at  his  best  moments  and  his  noblest  inspirations.  He 
is  not  amazed  when  he  does  a  brave  thing  or  an  unself- 
ish thing.  He  is  amazed  at  himself  when  he  is  a 
coward  or  a  liar.  He  accepts  self-restraint  only  as  a 
temporary  condition,  an  immediate  necessity  of  life. 
Not  self-restraint  but  self-indulgence,  the  free,  unhin- 
dered utterance  of  the  deepest  nature,  which  is  good,  — ■ 
that  is  the  only  final  picture  of  man's  duty  which  he 
tolerates.  And  all  the  life  is  one;  the  specially  and 
specifically  religious  being  but  the  point  at  which  the 
diamond  for  the  moment  shines,  with  all  the  diamond 
nature  waiting  in  reserve  through  the  whole  substance 
of  the  precious  stone. 


'The  Light  of  the  World.  21 

Great  is  the  power  of  a  life  which  knows  that  its 
highest  experiences  are  its  truest  experiences,  that  it  is 
most  itself  when  it  is  at  its  best.  For  it  each  high 
achievement,  each  splendid  vision,  is  a  sign  and  token 
of  the  whole  nature's  possibility.  What  a  piece  of  the 
man  was  for  that  shining  instant,  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
whole  man  to  be  always.  When  the  hand  has  once  ' 
touched  the  rock  the  heart  cannot  be  satisfied  until  the 
whole  frame  has  been  drawn  up  out  of  the  waves  and 
stands  firm  on  its  two  feet  on  the  solid  stone. 

Are  there  not  very  many  of  us  to  whom  the  worst  that 
we  have  been  seems  ever  possible  of  repetition ;  but  the 
best  that  we  have  ever  been  shines  a  strange  and  splen- 
did miracle  which  cannot  be  repeated  ?  The  gutter  in 
which  we  lay  one  day  is  always  claiming  us.  The 
mountain-top  on  which  we  stood  one  glorious  morning 
seems  to  have  vanished  from  the  earth. 

The  very  opposite  of  all  that  is  the  belief  of  him  who 
knows  himself  the  child  of  God.  For  him,  for  him 
alone,  sin  has  its  true  horror.  ' '  What !  have  I,  who 
once  have  claimed  God,  whom  once  God  has  claimed, 
have  I  been  down  into  the  den  of  Devils  ?  Have  I  bru- 
talized my  brain  with  drink  ?  Have  I  let  my  heart 
burn  with  lust  ?  Have  I,  the  child  of  God,  cheated  and 
lied  and  been  cruel  and  trodden  on  my  brethren  to  sat- 
isfy my  base  ambition  ?  "  Oh,  believe  me,  believe  me, 
my  dear  friends,  you  never  will  know  the  horror  and 
misery  of  sin  till  you  know  the  glory  and  mystery  of 
man.  You  never  can  estimate  the  disaster  of  an  inter- 
ruption till  you  know  the  worth  of  what  it  interrupts. 
You  never  will  understand  wickedness  by  dwelling  on 


22  The  Light  of  the  World. 

the  innate  depravity  of  man.  You  can  understand 
wickedness  only  by  knowing  that  the  very  word  man 
means  holiness  and  strength. 

Here,  too,  lies  the  sublime  and  beautiful  variety  of  hu- 
man life.  It  is  as  beings  come  to  their  reality  that  they 
assert  their  individuality.  In  the  gutter  all  the  poor 
wretches  lie  huddled  together,  one  indistinguishable 
mass  of  woe ;  but  on  the  mountain-top  each  figure  stands 
out  separate  and  clear  against  the  blueness  of  the  sky. 
The  intense  variety  of  Light !  The  awful  monotony  of 
Darkness  !  Men  are  various ;  Christians  ought  to  be  va- 
rious a  thousand-fold.  Strive  for  your  best,  that  there 
you  may  find  your  most  distinctive  life.  We  cannot 
dream  of  what  interest  the  world  will  have  wh^n  every 
being  in  its  human  multitude  shall  shine  with  his  own 
light  and  color,  and  be  the  child  of  God  which  it  is 
possible  for  him  to  be,  —  which  he  has  ever  been  in  the 
true  home -land  of  his  Father's  thought. 

Do  I  talk  fancies  ?  Do  I  paint  visions  upon  unsubstan- 
tial clouds  ?  If  it  seem  to  you  that  I  do,  I  beg  you  to 
come  back  now,  as  I  close,  to  those  words  which  I  quoted 
to  you  at  the  beginning.  "  I  am  the  Light  of  the  World, " 
said  Jesus.  Do  you  not  see  now  what  I  meant  when  I 
declared  that  it  was  in  making  the  world  know  itself 
that  Christ  was  primarily  the  Power  of  the  World's  Re- 
demption ?  The  Revealer  and  the  Redeemer  are  not  two 
persons,  but  only  one,  —  one  Saviour. 

What  then  ?  If  Christ  can  make  you  know  yourself ; 
if  as  you  walk  with  Him  day  by  day.  He  can  reveal  to  you 
your  sonship  to  the  Father ;  if,  keeping  daily  company 
with  Him,  you  can  come  more  and  more  to  know  how 


The  Light  of  the  World.  23 

native  is  goodness  and  how  unnatural  sin  is  to  the  soul 
of  man;  if,  dwelling  with  Him  who  is  both  God  and 
Man,  you  can  come  to  believe  both  in  God  and  in  Man 
through  Him,  then  you  are  saved,  —  saved  from  con- 
tempt, saved  from  despair,  saved  into  courage  and  hope 
and  charity  and  the  power  to  resist  temptation,  and  the 
passionate  pursuit  of  perfectness. 

It  is  as  simple  and  as  clear  as  that.  Our  religion  is 
not  a  system  of  ideas  about  Christ.  It  is  Christ.  To 
believe  in  Him  is  what  ?  To  say  a  creed  ?  To  join  a 
church  ?  No ;  but  to  have  a  great,  strong,  divine  Master, 
whom  we  perfectly  love,  whom  we  perfectly  trust,  whom 
we  will  follow  anywhere,  and  who,  as  we  follow  Him 
or  walk  by  His  side,  is  always  drawing  out  in  us  our 
true  nature  and  making  us  determined  to  be  true  to  it 
through  everything,  is  always  compelling  us  to  see 
through  falsehood  and  find  the  deepest  truth,  which  is, 
in  one  great  utterance  of  it,  that  we  are  the  sons  of  God, 
who  is  thus  always  "  leading  us  to  the  Father. " 

The  hope  of  the  world  is  in  the  ever  richer  natural- 
ness of  the  highest  life.  "  The  earth  shall  be  full  of  the 
knowledge  of  God  as  the  waters  cover  the  sea. " 

Your  hope  and  mine  is  the  same.  The  day  of  our 
salvation  has  not  come  till  every  voice  brings  us  one 
message ;  till  Christ,  the  Light  of  the  world,  everywhere 
reveals  to  us  the  divine  secret  of  our  life ;  till  every- 
thing without  joins  with  the  consciousness  all  alive 
within,  and  "  the  Spirit  Itself  beareth  witness  with  our 
spirits  that  we  are  the  children  of  God." 


11. 

THE  NEW  AND  GREATER  MIRACLE. 

Could  not  this  man,  which  opened  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  have  caused 
that  even  this  man  should  not  have  died  ?  — John  xi.  37. 

It  is  interesting  to  remember  how  all  which  has  hap- 
pened to  Christianity  happened  first  to  Christ.  All  the 
welcome  and  rejection,  all  the  eager  love,  the  passion- 
ate hatred,  and  the  perplexed  questionings  which  have 
greeted  the  religion  of  the  Saviour  greeted  the  Saviour 
first,  and  have  left  their  record  on  the  pages  of  the  Gos- 
pels, in  which  the  story  of  His  earthly  life  is  told.  K 
men  have  always  wondered  whether  the  final  salvation 
of  this  world  has  been  attained  in  Jesus,  has  there  not 
been  in  their  questioning  the  echo  of  John  the  Baptist's 
message,  "Art  thou  He  that  should  come,  or  do  we 
look  for  another  ?  "  If  men  have  taunted  Christianity 
because  with  all  its  vast  claims  to  mastery  it  still  has 
been  despised  and  trodden  under  foot  of  men,  we  can 
hear  through  their  mockery  the  words  which  greeted 
Jesus  in  his  agony,  "  If  thou  be  the  Son  of  God,  come 
down  from  the  cross."  If  men's  pride  in  their  own 
self-sufficiency  and  in  the  competence  of  their  earthly 
associations  and  traditions  has  been  wounded,  they  have 
cried  out  to  the  Redeemer,  who  offered  His  redemption 
with   such   importunate   insistence,  "Art  thou  greater 


The  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  25 

than  our  father  Abraham  ?  Art  thou  greater  than  our 
fathei-  Jacob,  which  gave  us  this  well  ?  "  If  the  spirit- 
ual region  from  which  Christianity  issued  has  seemed 
too  obscure,  too  remote  from  the  great  accredited  inter- 
ests of  mankind,  the  voice  which  declared  that  such  a  re- 
ligion could  not  save  the  world  has  only  taken  up  again 
the  old  objections,  "Can  any  good  thing  come  out  of 
:^.  Nazareth  ?  "  "  Search  and  look,  for  out  of  Galilee  ariseth 
no  prophet. "  It  is  a  sign  of  the  vitality  and  reality  of 
Jesus,  it  is  a  sign  of  how  Christianity  is  but  the  ex- 
tension and  perpetuation  of  Christ  in  the  world,  that 
all  which  is  said  of  Christianity  to-day  was  said  years 
and  years  ago  of  Christ. 

An  illustration  of  all  this  is  found  in  the  words  which 
I  have  chosen  for  my  text.  A  miracle  of  Jesus  was 
fresh  in  people's  minds.  He  had  touched  a  blind  man's 
eyes  and  given  him  his  sight.  Then  some  short  time 
had  passed,  and  a  new  need  for  help  had  come.  Lazarus 
of  Bethany  was  very  sick.  And  Jesus  had  not  healed 
him.  He  had  not  even  come  to  him.  He  had  let  Laza- 
rus die.  And  to  the  people,  as  they  stood  around  the 
tomb  where  he  was  buried,  there  had  inevitably  come 
this  question,  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  Why  was  there 
not  another  miracle  ?  Surely  it  is  strange  that  He  who 
could  restore  the  power  of  sight  should  have  found  any 
difficulty  here.  Could  not  this  man,  which  opened  the 
eyes  of  the  blind,  have  caused  that  this  man  should  not 
have  died  ?  "  Mary  and  Martha,  the  dead  man's  sisters, 
felt  the  same  wonder.  "  Lord,  if  thou  hadst  been  here 
my  brother  had  not  died ! "  so  each  of  them  exclaimed 
as  she  came  into  the  Master's  presence.     It  was  evi- 


26  The  New  aiid  Greater  Miracle. 

dentlj  the  feeling  of  the  whole  scene,  —  this  wonder 
at  the  imrepeated  miracle,  at  the  unused  power  which 
might  have  prevented  all  this  sorrow  and  kept  the  dear 
life  alive. 

And  we  can  imagine  something  of  the  questions  which 
such  a  wonder  must  have  started  in  the  people's  minds. 
Some  of  them  must  have  found  themselves  questioning 
the  reality  of  the  old  miracle.  "Did  He  indeed  then 
open  the  blind  man's  eyes  ?  Could  we  have  been  mis- 
taken ?  "  To  others  it  must  have  seemed  as  if  Jesus 
could  not  have  cared  for  Lazarus.  "  It  must  have  been, 
if  He  had  cared  for  him,  that  He  would  have  helped  him 
here. "  And  then  there  must  have  been  others  to  whom 
there  came  some  better  light.  "Perhaps  after  all  to 
have  caused  that  this  man  should  not  have  died  would 
not  have  been  the  greatest  mercy.  Perhaps  Jesus  did 
love  Lazarus  and  could  have  saved  him,  and  did  not 
choose  to.  Perhaps  not  the  repetition  of  a  former  mercy 
but  something  new  and  diiferent  was  best."  At  any 
rate  the  power  and  the  love  of  Jesus  were  to  them  be- 
yond all  question ;  and  so  they  waited. 

Between  these  last  and  the  other  two  groups  there 
evidently  is  a  clear  distinction.  These  last  believe  in 
Jesus;  to  the  others  Jesus  is  still  on  test  and  trial. 
Here  is  the  parting  of  the  ways.  Here  is  where  some 
turn  this  way  and  some  that,  and  some  stand  hesitating 
at  the  fork.  Here  is  where  men  either  go  up  to  great- 
ness and  full  faith,  or  rest  in  partialness  and  scepti- 
cism which  yet  often  calls  itself  faith.  Oh,  strange 
clear  scene  outside  the  tomb  at  Bethany,  where  men 
stood  wondering  why  Christ  did  not  do  what  they  ex- 


The  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  27 

pected  Him  to  do,   and  giving  their  faithful  or  their 
faithless  explanations ! 

And  now  has  not  the  same  scene  been  repeated  ever 
since  ?  This  is  what  I  want  to  speak  of  to  you  this 
morning.  Some  miracle  is  wrought;  some  manifesta- 
tion of  the  strength  of  the  spiritual  power  of  Christ  is 
made.  The  whole  world  which  recognizes  the  miracle 
shouts  for  joy.  "  How  strong  Christ  is  !  "  it  cries,  and 
seems  to  feel  as  if  for  all  time  to  come  there  could  be 
nothing  again  like  difficulty  or  doubt  or  lack  of  faith. 
Then  by  and  by  a  new  emergency  occurs.  Men  say 
"There  is  no  danger;  we  know  exactly  what  to  do. 
The  Christ  who  saved  us  yesterday  will  come  again." 
They  watch  and  listen  confidently,  but  He  does  not 
come.  The  emergency  works  itself  out  to  its  catastro- 
phe. Then  comes  dismay.  "Has  Christ  grown  power- 
less or  pitiless  ?  "  or,  "  Were  we  then  mistaken,  and  was 
that  no  Christ  which  saved  us  yesterday?  If  He  did 
really  open  the  eyes  of  the  blind,  surely  He  could  have 
caused  that  this  man  should  not  have  died. "  So  spring 
suspicions  and  misgivings ;  so  is  scepticism  born.  But 
some  souls  stand  serene  and  patient,  with  more  spiritual 
insight  into  Christ  and  what  He  will  do.  "  He  will  not 
Work  the  same  work  twice ;  He  will  do  something  new 
and  greater.  Let  us  wait  and  see."  And  by  and  by 
such  faith  is  justified,  and  He  who  did  not  choose  to 
cause  that  this  man  should  not  have  died  cries,  "  Laza- 
rus, come  forth ; "  and  the  greater  miracle  has  taken 
place  where  the  smaller  miracle  seemed  to  fail. 
>  No  doubt  in  all  times  the  illustrations  of  this  truth 
have  been  abundant,  but  it  would  seem  as  if  they  were 


28  The  New  and  Greater  Kirade. 

especially  plentiful  to-day.  For  now  the  new  is  every- 
where opening  out  of  the  old,  and  the  methods  of  God's 
treatment  of  His  world  are  manifestly  and  bewilderingly 
changing.  Take  the  whole  subject  of  the  difficulties  of 
religious  thought.  How  often  in  the  past  it  has  seemed 
at  least  to  be  the  case  that  when  difficult  questions  arose 
men  were  raised  up  to  answer  them !  In  the  great  crises 
of  the  Church's  life  great  souls  like  Athanasius,  Augus- 
tine, Luther,  Calvin,  have  stood  forth,  and  with  some 
great  and  timely  word  have  seemed  to  satisfy  men's 
souls  and  set  their  questionings  at  rest.  But  how  is  it 
to-day  ?  There  never  was  more  doubt  or  tumult.  Never 
was  the  great  human  heart,  seeking  for  truth,  more  be- 
wildered and  distracted.  How  natural  then  is  the  cry 
which  here  and  there  breaks  forth,  "  Where  is  the  mighty 
champion  of  truth  who  is  to  come  to-day  and  answer 
all  these  questions,  as  other  champions  have  answered 
the  hard  questions  of  other  days  ?  Where  is  the  mal- 
leus hoeretieorum  who  is  to  beat  into  fine  dust  these  hard 
and  puzzling  adversaries  of  the  truth  ?  "  Now  and  then 
we  hear  reports  that  he  has  come.  The  rumor  runs 
about  that  some  book  has  been  printed,  or  some  voice 
has  been  raised  which  is  to  settle  and  make  plain  for- 
ever all  that  has  grown  so  mixed  and  unintelligible. 
The  rumor  always  ends  in  disappointment.  The  book 
or  the  teacher  clears  up  perhaps  some  special  point,  or 
calms  perhaps  some  corner  of  the  tempest,  but  the  great 
tumult  of  cloud  still  fills  the  sky.  And  then  there 
comes  to  many  men,  there  has  come  to  very  many  men 
in  these  our  days,  another  possibility,  another  hope. 
"What  if  it  be  that  God  has  for  His  people  in  these 


1 


The  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  29 

days  a  better  blessing  than  any  whicli  He  gave  to  them 
of  old  ?  What  if  instead  of  sending  them  a  subtle  and 
ingenious  leader  who  can  answer  questions  and  put 
doubts  to  rest,  I^e  chooses  by  the  very  process  of  unan- 
swered questions  and  unresting  doubts  to  bring  the  whole  ^ 
soul  of  man  onto  a  higher  level,  into  a  broader  light,  and 
make  it  ready  for  a  larger  and  completer  faith  ?  "  The 
difference  between  the  old  faith  patched  and  made  habit- 
able and  a  new  faith  where  men  with  hearts  wide  open 
to  the  truth  may  go  in  and  live  without  a  fear,  —  this 
is  the  difference  between  the  two  sets  of  dreams  which 
men  are  dreaming.  One  man  expects  to  see  old  forms 
of  faith  restored,  and  thinks  that  doubt  and  all  disturb^ 
ance  will  be  looked  back  on  by  and  by  as  a  mere  dread- 
ful cloud  through  which  the  human  soul  has  passed, 
coming  out  from  it  finally  just  as  it  entered  in.  Another 
man  looks  for  a  great  re-birth  of  faith  and  expects  to  see 
mankind  grateful  forever  that  out  of  the  very  grave  of 
unbelief  there  came  a  resurrection  to  a  fuller  spiritual 
life.  All  men  who  think  at  all  about  the  strange  condi- 
tion of  religious  things  to-day  belong  to  one  or  other  of 
these  classes.  Which  is  the  nobler  dream  ?  Which 
dream  is  the  more  worthy  both  of  God  and  man  ?  Which 
opens  the  more  hopeful  prospect  for  the  years  to  come  ? 
Nor  is  this  true  only  about  religious  things.  The 
real  question  everywhere  is  whether  the  world,  dis- 
tracted and  confused  as  everybody  sees  that  it  is,  is  go= 
ing  to  be  patched  up  and  restored  to  what  it  used  to  be, 
or  whether  it  is  going  forward  into  a  quite  new  and 
different  kind  of  life,  whose  exact  nature  nobody  can 
pretend  to  foretell,  but  which  is  to  be  distinctly  new, 


30  The  New  and  Greater  Miracle. 

unlike  the  life  of  any  age  which  the  world  has  seen 
already.  Men  say,  "The  world  has  been  disturbed 
before.  Classes  have  clashed  with  one  another.  Gov- 
erned and  governors,  employed  and  employers,  rich  and 
poor,  have  come  to  blows  in  other  days,  but  things  have 
always  adjusted  themselves  again.  The  stronger  have 
grown  kinder;  the  weaker  have  grown  humbler;  the 
paternal  governor  has  grown  more  fatherly;  the  obe- 
dient subject  has  grown  more  filial,  and  things  have 
gone  on  again  as  smoothly  as  before. "  "  So  shall  it  be 
again, "  men  say.  That  is  what  they  expect  as  the  out- 
come of  all  this  conflict.  But  other  men  see  clearer. 
It  is  impossible  that  the  old  conditions,  so  shaken  and 
broken,  can  ever  be  repaired  and  stand  just  as  they  stood 
before.  The  time  has  come  when  something  more  than 
mere  repair  and  restoration  of  the  old  is  necessary. 
The  old  must  die  and  a  new  must  come  forth  out  of  its 
tomb.  It  is  not  going  to  be  enough  that  the  strong 
should  once  more  grow  kinder  and  the  weak  grow  hum- 
bler. The  balance  and  distribution  of  strength  and  weak- 
ness is  being  altered,  must  be  altered  more  and  more. 
The  sources  of  artificial  strength  and  artificial  weakness 
are  being  dried  up.  Governors  and  governed,  employers 
and  employed,  are  coming  to  be  co-workers  for  the  same 
ends.  Not  the  old  mercies  repeated,  but  new  mercies 
going  vastly  deeper  than  the  old,  —  these  are  what  men 
are  beginning  to  see  that  the  world  is  needing  and  that 
God  is  giving  to  the  world  He  loves. 

We  think  of  the  world's  misery.  Our  souls  are  sick 
with  the  sight  of  hunger  and  nakedness  and  want.  We 
cry  out  for  the  miracles  of  old ;  we  remember  the  manna 


I 


Tlie  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  31 

falling  from  the  skies ;  we  see  the  loaves  and  fishes  mul- 
tiplied beside  the  lake ;  we  wonder  where  is  the  mira- 
cle-worker now.  Cannot  He  who  fed  the  hungry  Jews 
feed  these  hungry  Americans  ?  We  are  ready  to  doubt  \ 
the  old  story  of  His  mercy,  or  to  think  He  has  forgotten 
to  be  gracious  and  ceased  to  care  for  these  modern  na- 
tions whom  He  has  not  "  chosen. "  And  then,  just  as 
we  are  ready  to  give  up  to  despair  in  one  or  other  of 
these  forms,  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  something  better,  of 
something  which  makes  us  see  that  the  manna  and  the 
miraculous  loaves  and  fishes,  made  perpetual,  would  be 
demoralizing  and  degrading.  Some  light  comes  on  the 
necessity  and  nobility  of  struggle.  We  see  the  greater 
glory  of  the  new  miracle, —  the  miracle  of  the  advancing 
civilization,  whose  purpose  is  not  to  do  away  with  strug- 
gle but  to  make  the  conditions  of  struggle  fair  and  the 
prospects  of  struggle  hopeful.  Into  the  spirit  of  that 
miracle  we  cast  ourselves,  not  expecting  to  see  the 
world's  misery  suddenly  removed,  but  sure  that  at  last 
the  world,  in  and  through  its  misery,  will  triumph  over 
its  misery  by  patience  and  diffused  intelligence  and  mu- 
tual respect  and  brotherly  kindness  and  the  grace  of 
God. 

To  expect  the  miracles  of  the  present  and  the  future, 
not  the  miracles  of  the  past,  —  is  not  that  the  secret  of 
all  living  and  progressive  life  ?  There  is  no  other  life 
for  a  true  man  to  live  to-day.  The  man  is  weak  and 
useless  who,  however  devoutly,  looks  only  for  the  repeti- 
tion of  past  miracles,  good  and  great  as  those  miracles 
were  in  their  own  time.  Solemnly  and  surely  —  to 
some  men  terribly  and  awfully,  to  other  men  joyously 

') 


32  The  New  and  Greater  Miracle. 

and  enthusiastically  —  it  is  becoming  clear  to  men  that 
the  future  cannot  be  what  the  past  has  been.  The 
world  of  the  days  to  come  is  to  be  different  from  the 
world  that  has  been.  Every  interest  of  life  is  altered ; 
government,  society,  business,  education,  all  is  altered, 
all  is  destined  to  alter  more  and  more.  Only  these 
two  elements  remain  the  same,  —  God  and  man ! 
What  then  shall  we  expect  ?  That  God  will  guide  man 
and  supply  him  as  He  has  in  all  the  times  which  are 
'4-  past  and  gone,  but  that  the  new  government  and  guid- 
ance will  be  different  for  the  new  days.  He  who  be- 
lieves that,  looks  forward  to  changes  of  faith  and  changes 
of  life  without  a  fear,  for  underneath  all  the  changes  is 
the  unchangeableness  of  God.  The  ship  looks  forward 
fearlessly  to  the  new  ocean  with  its  new  stars  and  new 
winds,  for  the  same  captain  will  sail  her  there  who  has 
sailed  her  here,  and  the  fact  that  he  will  sail  her  there 
otherwise  than  he  sails  her  here  will  be  only  the  sign  of 
how  sleepless  and  watcMul  is  his  care. 

Is  it  not  very  interesting  to  see  how  sometimes  in  the 
typical  life  of  Jesus  there  had  to  be  the  same  struggle 
with  which  we  are  familiar,  —  to  let  go  of  one  kind  of 
mercy  and  pass  on  into  another  ?  Twice  especially  the 
Lord  cried  out  to  be  saved  from  the  future  which  was 
just  upon  Him.  "  Father,  save  me  from  this  hour ! " 
"  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me. " 
Both  of  these  are  cries  for  deliverance.  "Father,  thou 
hast  saved  me,  save  me  again !  "  It  is  a  cry  for  the  re- 
peated miracle.  But  —  how  wonderful  it  is  !  —  both 
times,  before  the  words  are  fully  spoken,  comes  a  fuller 
light;  the  glory  of  a  new  and  better  miracle  appears. 


The  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  33 

'  No  I  I  cannot  be  saved  from  this  hour, "  "  No !  I  cannot 
see  this  cup  pass  from  me  except  I  drink   it;"   but 
"  Father,  glorify  thy  name, "  "  Father,  not  my  will  but 
thine  be  done !  "    The  miracle  of  escape  is  abandoned ;  V 
the  miracle  of  victory  is  taken  up.     Thenceforth  not  to 

^  be  saved  from  suffering  but  to  save  the  world  by  suffer- 
ing is  His  hope  and  prayer.  Is  He  not  the  type  of  the 
world  He  saved  ?  Is  it  not  growing  evident  that  there 
are  many  things  which  the  world  thus  far  has  striven 
to  escape  which  now  it  must  strive,  not  to  escape,  but  to 
overcome  ?  Duties  which  it  has  ignored,  tasks  which 
it  has  counted  too  great  for  its  strength,  problems  for 
which  it  has  thought  that  there  was  no  answer,  which 

,  now  it  must  take  up,  with  which  it  must  grapple,  by  its 
victory  in  the  struggle  with  which  it  must  be  judged. 
The  best  part  of  the  world,  seeing  its  new  history  before 
it,  is  saying  just  as  Jesus  said,  first  fearfully,  "  Father, 
save  me  from  this  hour, "  and  then  bravely,  "  But  for 
this  cause  came  I  unto  this  hour.  Father,  glorify  thy 
name!" 

It  does  not  prove  that  the  old  miracle  was  not  real,  or 
that  it  was  not  the  best  miracle  for  its  time ;  but  a  new 
time  is  worthy  and  capable  of  a  new  miracle,  and  if  it 
rises  to  its  full  privilege  it  does  not  ask  that  the  old 
shall  be  preserved,  but  rather  that  out  of  the  death  of 
the  old  a  better  new  may  come  to  life. 

I  bid  you  think  what  is  the  different  and  higher  kind 
of  faith  which  such  a  change  involves  ?  They  who,  hear- 
ing that  Lazarus  was  ill,  believed  that  Christ  would 
come  and  heal  him  as  He  had  opened  the  blind  man's 
eyes,  had  faith  in  the  old  miracle.     They  who  were  will- 

3 


34  The  New  and  Greater  Miracle. 

ing  that  Lazarus  should  die,  knowing  that  death  could 
not  take  him  out  of  Christ's  power,  and  that  Christ 
would  still  do  for  him  what  was  best,  had  faith  in 
Christ.  That  is  the  difference.  That  is  the  great,  ever- 
lasting difference  of  faiths.  There  is  the  faith  in  what 
God  has  done,  which  believes  that  He  can  do  it  again, 
and  there  is  the  faith  in  the  God  who  did  it,  which  be- 
lieves that  He  can  do  whatever  else  is  needed  in  any  day  i 
to  come.  '  Some  men  only  let  us  believe  in  their  actions ; 
other  men's  actions  open  to  us  themselves  and  make  us 
believe  in  them.  Some  men,  dealing  with  God,  are  sat- 
isfied to  get  at  His  ways  of  acting  and  fix  their  faith  on 
them ;  other  men  cannot  be  content  unless  through  every- 
thing they  come  to  God  Himself,  and  knowing  Him  in 
His  omnipotence,  are  ready  to  see  ever  new  miracles 
issuing  from  His  power  as  ever  new  sunbeams  come 
streaming  from  the  sun.  The  first  man  only  looks  to 
see  the  old  machinery  of  the  world  and  the  Church  re- 
paired and  kept  in  order;  the  other  man  looks  to  see 
world  and  church  ever  made  new,  ever  bearing  new  tes- 
timony that  they  are  fresh  and  living  utterances  of  Him 
who  has  always  deep  and  richer  manifestation  of  Him- 
self to  make. 

My  friends,  do  not  be  content  with  believing  in  God's 
ways  of  action.  Insist  on  believing  in  God.  Then  the 
future  will  not  take  you  by  surprise.  Then  you  will  be 
ready  not  merely  for  the  repetition  of  the  miracles  of 
the  past,  but  for  ever  new  and  richer  miracles,  for  you 
will  feel  above  you  and  beneath  you  and  around  you  the 
inexhaustibleness  of  the  God  in  whom  you  believe. 

I  have  spoken  mostly  —  perhaps  too  much  —  about  the 


The  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  35 

way  in  which  one  truth  affects  the  larger  expectations 
of  the  world;  but  it  is  no  less  true  concerning  each 
man's  own  personal  career.  Let  me  turn  for  a  little 
while  to  that.  For  years  you  have  lived,  it  may  be,  a 
secluded  and  protected  life.  "  Lead  me  not  into  temp- 
tation," so  you  have  prayed  every  morning,  and  every 
day  has  brought  the  answer  to  your  prayer.  But  some 
day  all  that  breaks  and  goes  to  pieces.  A  great  temp- 
tation comes  and  is  not  hindered.  Then  you  cry  out  for 
the  old  mercy  and  it  is  not  given.  What  does  it  mean  ? 
Was  the  old  mercy  no  mercy  ?  Was  it  by  mere  accident 
that  you  so  long  escaped  being  tempted  ?  Or  has  God 
grown  tired  of  protecting  you  ?  Has  He  ceased  to  care  ? 
Could  not  He  who  saved  you  so  often  save  you  again  ? 
And  then,  behold  what  comes !  A  new  mercy !  You 
go  into  the  temptation.  Your  old  security  perishes,  but 
by  and  by  out  of  its  death  comes  a  new  strength.  Not 
to  be  saved  trom  dying  but  to  die  and  then  to  live 
again  in  a  new  security,  a  strong  and  trusty  character, 
educated  by  trial,  purified  by  fire,  —  that  is  what  comes 
as  the  issue  of  the  whole.  Not  a  victory  for  you,  pre- 
serving you  from  danger,  but  a  victory  in  you,  strength- 
ening you  by  danger,  —  that  is  the  experience  from  which 
you  go  forth,  strong  with  a  strength  which  nothing  can 
subdue.  ' 

And  if  it  is  so  with  you,  why  shall  it  not  be  so  also 
with  the  soul  for  which  you  care  ?  Here  is  your  brother 
or  your  child.  You  have  prayed  that  he  might  be 
shielded,  and  God  has  shielded  him.  The  wickedness 
of  the  world  has  been  for  him  as  if  it  went  on  in  another 
planet.     The  unbelief  of  men  has  never  found  him  out. 


36  57^6  New  and  Greater  Miracle. 

wrapped  as  he  is  in  the  unquestioned  and  unquestionable 
truth  which  you  have  taught  him.  Every  night  you  have 
thanked  God  for  the  miracle  of  preservation  safely  con- 
tinued for  another  day.  And  then  some  day  all  that  is 
over.  The  safe  walls  seem  all  to  give  way  together ;  the 
lurid  flames  burst  in  on  the  bewildered  soul;  the  un- 
belief, shouting  and  arrogant,  lifts  itself  up,  and  all  the 
peace  of  settled,  unquestioned  faith  is  gone.  You  cry 
out  for  the  old  familiar  miracle  and  it  does  not  come. 
Oh,  terrible  day !  Oh,  bitter  anxiety !  Happy  and  wise 
and  brave  are  you  if,  knowing  that  the  day  for  the  old 
miracle  is  past,  you  hope  and  wish  and  pray  for  it  no 
longer,  but  make  ready  for  the  new  miracle  and  for  the 
help  which  it  will  be  yours  to  render  to  the  soul  in  the 
new  life  upon  which  it  is  to  enter  through  its  tempta- 
tion and  its  doubt.  Happy  and  wise  and  brave  are  you 
if,  discerning  that  Jesus  has  something  better  to  do  for 
Lazarus  than  to  save  him  from  dying,  you  stand  ready 
to  receive  him  as  he  comes  out  of  the  tomb,  to  loosen 
and  take  off  his  grave-clothes,  to  give  him  the  raiment 
and  the  food  of  living  men,  and  to  welcome  him  into 
the  new  and  larger  life  which  has  become  possible  to 
him  through  death. 

Suppose  it  is  the  death  to  which  we  more  literally 
give  that  great  and  awful  name.  You  have  prayed  that 
your  child  may  live,  and  God,  once  and  again,  has 
spared  his  life.  "  Can  He  not  spare  it  again  ?  "  you 
cry  upon  some  dreadful  night  as  you  stand  by  your 
child's  sick-bed,  counting  the  pulse,  watching  the  fee- 
bler and  feebler  flutter  of  the  breath.  The  morning 
comes  and  he  is  dead !    Has  God  been  then  deaf  to  your 


The  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  37 

prayer  ?  Oh,  if  there  is  a  new  miracle,  if  beyond  the 
miracle  which  saves  from  dying  there  is  the  miracle 
which  brings  through  death  to  life  beyond,  then  God 
has  not  been  deaf !  Your  child  living  with  Him  speaks 
back  to  you  and  says,  "  He  who  has  saved  me  often  has 
saved  me  now  completely.  ^  I  am  alive ;  not  from  death 
but  through  death  He  has  saved  me.  The  last,  best, 
greatest  miracle  has  come,  and  I  am  alive,  I  am  saved ;  I 
am  alive  and  safe  forever. " 

To  that  last  miracle  we  must  all  come.  A  thousand 
times,  yea,  every  perilous  moment,  God  saves  us  from 
dying.  There  is  a  moment  on  the  way  for  every  one  of 
us  when  that  preservation  will  be  possible  no  longer. 
We  shall  pray,  our  friends  will  pray  for  us,  "Again, 
0  Father,  spare  him ;  let  him  live. "  And  then  the  an- 
swer which  is  looked  for  will  not  come,  and  he  who  has 
been  so  often  saved  from  dying  at  last  will  die.  Will 
it  be  a  sign  of  God's  forgetfulness  ?  If  so,  then  God  has 
forgotten  all  His  children,  and  let  them  every  one,  either 
in  childhood  or  as  life-worn  veterans,  slip  through  His 
careless  hands ;  for  all  have  died  or  will  die.  But,  no ; 
if,  as  we  know  is  true,  the  real  life  lies  beyond,  and 
can  be  reached  only  through  death,  then  the  old  mira- 
cles are  nothing  to  this  new  one.  They  are  to  it  as 
little  as  was  the  miracle  by  which  at  Nazareth  Christ 
walked  through  the  hostile  multitude  and  went  His  way 
unharmed  to  the  great  miracle  of  resurrection,  in  which 
through  Death  the  Lord  of  Life  came  forth  to  be  alive 
for  evermore. 

Could  not  Christ  have  saved  Lazarus  from  dying? 
Could  not  Christ  save  you  or  me  from  perplexity  or 


38  The  New  and  Greater  Miracle. 

from  temptation  or  from  doubt  ?  Surely  those  are  ques- 
tions which  have  their  lower  and  their  higher  answers. 
He  could,  because  the  power  of  life  and  death  was  in 
Him.  But  the  power  to  use  the  power  depended  upon 
other  things.  It  depended  on  the  necessity  which  lay 
back  of  all  things  in  Jesus  to  do  the  absolutely  best 
thing,  —  not  the  second-best,  but  the  absolutely  best  of 
all.  If  it  were  best  for  Lazarus  to  die,  then  Christ 
could  not  have  caused  that  he  should  not  have  died. 
That  is  a  sublime  incapacity ;  to  stand  with  the  gift 
of  life  in  the  all-powerful  hands,  to  see  the  cry  for  life 
in  the  eager  eyes,  to  hear  it  in  the  dumb  appeal  of  the 
terrified  lips,  and  yet  to  say,  "  No,  not  life  but  death  is 
best, "  and  so  to  be  unable  to  give  life,  —  that  is  a  sub- 
lime, a  divine  incapacity!  Could  not  Christ  have  an- 
swered your  prayer  ?  No,  He  could  not ;  not  because  the 
thing  you  asked  for  was  not  in  His  treasury,  but  because 
behind  the  question  of  His  giving  or  refusing  it  there 
lay  the  fundamental  necessity  of  His  nature  and  His 
love,  that  He  should  do  for  you  only  the  absolutely 
best.  The  thing  you  asked  for  was  not  absolutely  best, 
therefore  He  could  not  give  it.  Back  of  how  many 
unanswered  prayers  lies  that  divine  impossibility ! 

Is  it  not  true  again  that  we  must  know  not  only  God's 
way  of  acting  but  God  Himself  before  all  this  can  be 
perfectly  accepted  into  our  life  ?  Oh,  how  we  make 
God  a  method,  a  law,  a  habit,  a  machine,  instead  of  a 
great,  dear,  live,  loving  Nature,  all  afire  with  affection, 
all  radiant  with  light,  quick  as  light  to  discriminate 
and  choose  and  shine  Avith  His  own  color  on  every  na- 
ture where  He  falls !     This  was  what  Jesus  was  so  full 


The  New  and  Greater  Miracle.  39 

of,  — the  living  God.  He  would  not  let  God  seem  a 
method  or  a  law.  God  was  a  life.  And  our  theolog}^, 
our  ecclesiasticism,  our  religion  is  always  trying  to 
beat  and  trample  Him  down  into  a  law  again.  How  we 
have  taken  that  great  word  Faith  and  made  it  mean  the 
holding  of  set  dogmas,  when  really  what  it  means  is 
the  wide  openness  of  a  whole  life  to  God !  How  we  have 
limited  and  stereotyped  the  range  and  possibility  of 
miracle  till  only  what  God  has  done  we  think  that  God 
can  do,  and  so  do  not  stand  ready  for  the  ever  new  light 
and  mercy  and  salvation  which  the  Infinite  Love,  the 
Infinite  Power,  the  Infinite  God  has  to  give ! 

Open  your  hearts  to-day.  God  cannot  merely  do  for 
you  over  and  over  again  what  He  has  done  in  the  past. 
He  must  do  more,  —  a  new  and  deeper  sight  of  His 
truth,  a  new  and  deeper  obedience  to  His  will.  Oh,  by 
and  by,  when  Lazarus  sat  with  them  all  at  Bethany  and 
the  house  was  solemn  with  the  resurrection  life,  how 
good  then  it  seemed  that  Christ  had  not  caused  that 
this  man  should  not  have  died!  And  the  day  will 
come  sometime,  somewhere  for  you  when  it  will  be 
your  everlasting  thankfulness  that  your  Lord  refused  to 
just  repeat  the  old  familiar  mercies  of  the  past,  but 
forced  you  through  everything  to  let  Him  do  for  you  the 
larger  and  larger  mercies  which  your  soul  required. 
When  He  so  tries  to  bless  you  with  His  largest  blessing, 
may  He  make  you  ready  to  submit  to  be  blessed ! 


/ 


in. 

THE  PRIORITY  OF  GOD. 

We  love  Him  because  He  first  loved  us.  —  1  John  iv.  19. 

John  the  Disciple  had  learned  from  Jesus,  his  Master, 
the  truth  of  the  priority  of  God,  —  the  truth  that  be- 
fore everything  is  God.  Some  truths,  when  we  have 
learned  them,  are  to  us  like  precious  jewels  which  we 
keep  in  caskets,  hidden  most  of  the  time  from  sight, 
our  great  satisfaction  regarding  them  being  simply 
their  possession,  — simply  that  they  are  ours.  Other 
truths,  when  we  have  learned  them,  are  like  new  coun- 
tries into  which  our  lives  have  entered,  and  in  which 
they  thenceforth  constantly  live.  There  is  a  new  sky 
over  our  head  and  a  new  earth  under  our  feet.  They 
fold  themselves  about  us  and  touch  every  thought  and 
action.  Everything  which  we  do  or  think  or  are  is  dif- 
ferent because  of  them.  Of  this  second  sort  is  the  truth 
of  the  priority  of  God.  Unless  God  had  been  first  we  — 
our  whole  human  race  in  general  and  each  of  us  in  par- 
ticular —  never  would  have  been  at  all.  We  are  what 
we  are  because  He  is  what  He  is.  Everything  which 
we  do  God  has  first  made  it  possible  for  us  to  do.  Every 
act  of  ours,  as  soon  as  it  is  done,  is  grasped  into  a  great 
world  of  activity  which  comes  from  Him ;  and  there  the 
influence  and  effect  of  our  action  is  determined.     Every- 


The  Priority  of  God.  41 

thing  that  we  know,  is  true  already  before  our  knowl- 
edge of  it.  Our  knowing  it  is  only  the  opening  of  our^ 
intelligence  to  receive  what  is  and  always  has  been  a 
part  of  His  being  who  is  the  universal  Truth.  Every 
deed  or  temper  or  life  is  good  or  bad  as  it  is  in  harmony 
or  out  of  harmony  with  Him.  Everywhere  God  is  first ; 
and  man,  coming  afterward,  enters  into  Him  and  finds 
in  God  the  setting  and  the  background  of  his  life. 
There  is  no  part  of  life  which  is  not  different  if  that  is 
true.  What  John  learned  in  mind  and  soul  from  Jesus 
was  that  that  is  true.  I  ask  you  this  morning  to  dwell 
with  me  on  the  truth  which  He  who  is  our  Master 
teaches  to  us  as  He  taught  it  to  this  great  disciple 
long  ago. 

We  may  say  a  few  words  first  upon  the  whole  subject 
of  the  backgrounds  of  life  in  general.  Man  never  is  sent 
first  into  the  world  and  bidden  to  evolve  out  of  his  own 
being  the  conditions  in  which  he  is  to  live.  Always 
something  is  before  him;  always  there  is  a  landscape 
in  which  he  finds  his  figure  standing  when  he  becomes 
conscious  of  himself.  If  we  go  back  to  the  story  of  the 
Book  of  Genesis,  behold !  the  earth  is  made  before  the 
human  creature  comes.  The  light  and  the  firmament, 
and  the  sun  and  the  moon,  the  grass  and  the  ocean  and 
the  living  creatures,  — they  are  all  here.  The  earth  is 
this  sumptuous  palace  of  luxuries,  this  rich  treasury  of 
influences,  before  God  says,  "  Let  us  make  man. " 

Natural  science  has  the  same  story  to  tell.  It  is  into 
a  furnished  and  a  garnished  earth  that  man  steps  fortli. 
His  earliest  figure  stands  against  the  background  of 
abundant  pre-existent  life.     And  coming  down  out  of 


42  The  Priority  of  God. 

the  antique  stories  into  the  picture  which  we  see  to-day, 
is  there  not  something  before  man  everywhere  ?  Does 
not  every  part  of  him,  each  sense  and  faculty,  find  the 
provision  for  its  exercise,  the  provocation  and  education 
of  its  use,  in  something  which  was  before  he  came, 
against  which  each  new-discovered  power  of  his  lays 
itself  and  knows  itself  and  comes  to  its  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment and  ripe  growth  ?  The  food  is  before  the  hunger, 
and  says,  "  I  have  waited  for  you  to  come. "  The  river 
is  before  the  thirst.  Beauty  was  in  the  sky  and  on  the 
hills  before  the  eye  was  fashioned.  Music  was  breath- 
ing on  the  winds  before  the  ear  was  framed.  Fragrance 
was  in  the  violet  and  the  forest  before  the  nostrils 
came  to  catch  its  odor.  The  picture  was  before  the 
imagination  which  discerned  it;  the  sea  before  the 
ship  that  sailed  it.  Man  finds  the  rocks  waiting  with 
their  problems,  frost  and  heat  holding  their  inspira- 
tion and  their  comfort  in  expectation  of  his  coming. 
And  he  never  says,  "  Here  I  am, "  that  the  servants  do 
not  stand  in  ranks  at  the  door  of  his  great  homestead  to 
welcome  the  heir  into  his  own,  and  to  pledge  him  their 
obedient  service.  The  material  is  background  for  the 
spiritual,  —  the  earth,  which  is  body,  for  man,  who  is 
soul. 

A  child  was  born  yesterday.  How  he  lies  to-day  in 
his  serene,  superb  unconsciousness !  And  all  the  forces 
and  resources  of  the  earth  are  gathered  about  his  cradle 
offering  themselves  to  him.  Each  of  his  new-born 
senses  is  besieged.  Each  eager  voice  cries  out  to  him, 
"  Here  I  am.  I  have  waited  for  you.  Here  I  am. "  He 
takes  what  they  all  bring  as  if  it  were  his  right.     Not 


The  Priority  of  God.  43 

merely  on  his  senses,  but  even  on  his  mind  and  most 
unconscious  soul,  the  world  into  which  he  has  come  is 
pressing  itself.  Its  conventionalities  and  creeds,  its 
standards  beaten  out  of  the  experience  of  uncounted  gen- 
erations, its  traditions  of  hope  and  danger,  its  preju- 
dices and  limitations  and  precedents,  all  its  discoveries 
and  hopes  and  fears,  —  they  are  the  scenery  in  which 
this  new  life  stands,  they  are  the  mountains  in  whose 
shadow  and  the  skies  in  whose  light  he  is  to  unfold  his 
long  career.  They  are  here  before  him,  and  he  comes 
into  them.  You  cannot  separate  him  and  them  from 
each  other.  He  and  his  world  make  one  system,  one 
rich,  complex  unit  of  life,  as  he  lies  this  Sunday  morn- 
ing in  his  cradle,  sleeping  his  unsuspecting  sleep. 

Shall  we  talk  about  all  this  as  if  it  were  a  bondage 
into  which  the  new  child  is  born  ?  Shall  we  dream 
for  him  of  a  freedom  which  he  might  have  had  if  noth- 
ing had  been  before  him,  if  he  had  found  nothing  here 
when  he  came  ?  Surely  that  is  no  true  way  to  think 
about  it.  There  are  men  who,  if  they  cannot  destroy 
the  world  of  assured  truths  and  accepted  ways  into 
which  they  have  been  born,  would  at  least  destroy  the 
consciousness  of  it.  They  would  ignore  it.  They  would 
seem  at  least  to  be  trying  experiments  as  if  nothing  had 
yet  been  proved.  They  would  live  as  if  they  were  the 
first  man,  with  no  history  to  rest  upon,  —  almost  as  if 
they  could  reverse  the  course  of  Genesis  and  make  the 
round  earth  and  the  whole  of  Nature  issue  from  and  fol- 
low them  instead  of  their  issuing  from  and  following  it. 
We  have  all  known  men  more  or  less  of  this  sort ;  and, 
interesting  as  many  of  them  have  been,  suggestive  as 


44  The  Prioritij  of  God. 

their  lives  have  often  been,  we  have  all  felt,  I  am  sure,  the 
weakness  that  was  in  them.  They  have  lacked  coher- 
ence and  unity  with  the  great  world.  They  have  lacked 
humility.  They  have  been  self -asserting.  The  note 
which  their  life  made  has  not  blended  with  the  music 
of  the  whole,  but  has  been  strange  and  violent.  It  has 
seemed  as  if  a  man  of  this  kind  thought  that  he  must 
make  the  world  before  he  could  live  in  it,  as  if  his 
knowing  the  truth  was  what  made  it  true,  and  his 
doing  of  righteousness  was  what  made  it  righteous. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  deny  the  exceptional  value  of 
such  men ;  but  their  value  is  the  value  of  protest  and 
exception.  There  is  always  something  gaunt  and  fever- 
ish and  wild  about  their  look.  The  normal,  healthy 
human  life  lives  in  its  environments  and  keeps  its  back- 
grounds. It  is  not  their  slave,  but  their  child.  They 
were  before  it;  and  its  strength  is  to  know  that  it 
comes  into  their  richness.  It  recognizes  their  priority. 
It  fastens  itself  into  them,  and  realizes  and  fulfils  its 
life  by  them,  and  makes  in  its  due  time  along  with  them 
the  background  for  the  lives  of  the  years  to  come. 

Now  all  of  this  is  not  religious,  save  in  the  very  larg- 
est sense ;  but  all  of  this  becomes  distinctively  religious 
the  moment  that  all  this  background  of  life  gathers  it- 
self into  a  unity  of  purpose  and  intention  and  becomes  a 
Providence,  or  care  of  God.  When  once  that  truth  has 
opened  on  us,  then  aU  the  interest  of  life  centres  in  and 
radiates  from  this,  —  that  He,  God,  is  before  it  all.  All 
the  welcome  which  Nature  gave  us  on  the  bright  morn- 
ing when  we  came  was  His  welcome.  All  the  depth  of 
Truth  out  of  which  our  opinions  have  shaped  themselves 


The  Priority  of  God.  45 

and  from  which  our  creeds  draw  their  inspiration  and 
dignity,  was  He,  the  everlasting  truth.  See  what  a 
change  has  come.  It  is  as  when  up  the  morning  sky, 
all  coldly  beautiful  with  ordered  ranks  of  cloud  on 
cloud,  is  poured  the  glow  of  sunrise,  and  every  least 
cloud,  still  the  same  in  place  and  shape,  burns  with  the 
transfiguring  splendor  of  the  sun.  So  is  it  when  the  pri- 
ority of  existence  is  seen  to  rest  in  a  Person,  and  the 
background  of  life  is  God.  Then  every  new  arrival  in- 
stantly reports  itself  to  Him,  and  is  described  in  terms  of 
its  relationship  to  Him.  Every  activity  of  ours  answers 
to  some  previous  activity  of  His.  Do  we  hope  ?  It  is 
because  we  have  caught  the  sound  of  some  promise  of 
His.  Do  we  fear  ?  It  is  because  we  have  had  some 
glimpse  of  the  dreadfulness  of  getting  out  of  harmony 
with  Him.  Are  we  curious  and  inquiring  ?  It  is  that  we 
may  learn  some  of  His  truth.  Do  we  resist  evil  ?  We 
are  fighting  His  enemies.  Do  we  help  need  ?  We  are 
relieving  His  children.  Do  we  love  Him  ?  It  is  an  an- 
swer of  gratitude  for  His  love  to  us.  Do  we  live  ?  It 
is  a  projection  and  extension  of  His  being.  Do  we  die  ? 
[t  is  the  going  home  of  our  immortal  souls  to  Him. 

Oh,  the  wonderful  richness  of  life  when  it  is  all  thus 
backed  with  the  priority  of  God !  It  is  the  great  illu- 
mination of  all  living.  And  the  wonder  of  it  is  the 
way  in  which,  in  that  illumination,  the  soul  of  man 
recognizes  its  right.  This  is  what  it  was  made  for. 
Everything,  until  that  light  was  poured  into  it,  was 
half-born,  cold,  and  incomplete,  like  the  drawing  with- 
out the  color,  like  the  morning  sky  before  the  sunrise. 
Take  the  single  experience  of  joy.     You  have  been  very 


/ 


46  The  Priority  of  God. 


glad.  Some  particular  delight  or  some  great  perpetual 
radiance  of  happiness  has  poured  itself  down  upon  your 
life.  You  have  waked  singing  in  the  morning.  You 
have  fallen  asleep  with  songs  upon  your  lips  at  night. 
Men  have  beheld  you  in  the  street,  and  said,  "How 
glad  he  is,"  and  felt  their  own  life  brighter,  their  own 
burden  lighter  as  they  passed  you  by.  Suppose  that 
some  day  behind  your  happiness  opens  the  depth  of  God. 
Suppose  that  it  all  turns  to  gratitude.  It  all  is  seen 
to  come  streaming  out  of  the  exhaustless  fountain  of 
His  love.  Tell  me,  is  it  the  same  ?  Is  there  no  deeper 
color  in  its  radiance,  no  deeper  music  in  its  song  ?  Has 
it  gained  nothing  of  spirituality  and  peace  ?  Has  not 
the  joy  lifted  its  face  skyward  and  been  filled  with  a 
new  light  ? 

Or  if  it  has  been  not  joy  but  deep  distress,  —  pain  of 
the  poor  racked  body  or  of  the  perplexed  and  wounded 

•  spirit, — it  is  still  the  same.  You  have  gone  up  and 
down  the  earth  in  sadness,  and  behind  that  sadness 
too  has  opened  God,  —  God  not  in  anger  and  revenge, 
not  hurling  the  arrows  of  your  torment  from  his  in- 
dignant wrath,  not  vexing  and  worrying  you  with 
peevish  spite,  but  God  full  of  pity,  pitiful  just  in  pro- 
portion to  His  holiness ;  God  anxious  to  help,  and  watch- 

'  ing  that  the  worst  tragedy  of  pain  may  not  happen,  that 
the  pain  may  not  come  and  go  and  leave  no  education 
and  blessing.  Let  this  open  behind  your  pain,  and  is 
not  pain  transfigured  ?  Not  removed  but  transfigured, 
made  something  more  than  tolerable,  pervaded  with  a 
low,  strong  light,  and  filled,  as  the  joy  was,  with  peace. 
The  same  is  true  of  all  experiences.     The  same  is 


The  Priority  of  God.  47 

true  of  that  sum  of  all  experiences  which  we  call  life. 
A  man's  world,  stretching  back  and  back,  farther  and 
farther,  finds  back  of  all,  before  all,  God.  The  world 
becomes  religious.  Oh,  those  old  words,  that  old  phrase, 
"  the  religious  world, "  —  what  a  poor,  petty,  vulgar  thing 
it  often  has  been  made  to  mean !  "  The  religious  world," 
in  the  language  of  the  newspapers,  is  almost  sure  to 
mean  a  little  section  of  humanity  claiming  monopoly  of 
divine  influences  and  making  the  whole  thought  of 
man's  intercourse  with  God  cheap  and  irreverent  by 
vicious  quarrels  and  mercenary  selfishness.  "The  re- 
ligious world  "  is  the  world  of  ecclesiastical  machin- 
eries and  conventions  and  arrangements.  But  look ! 
See  what  the  religious  world  really  is  in  its  idea,  and 
shall  be  when  it  shall  finally  be  realized.  A  world 
everywhere  aware  of  and  rejoicing  in  the  priority  of 
God,  feeling  all  power  flow  out  from  Him,  and  sending 
all  action  back  to  report  itself  to  Him  for  judgment,  — 
a  world  where  goodness  means  obedience  to  God,  and 
sin  means  disloyalty  to  God,  and  progress  means  growth 
in  the  power  to  utter  God,  and  knowledge  means  the 
understanding  of  God's  thought,  and  happiness  means 
the  peace  of  God's  approval.  That  is  the  religious 
world.  That  is  the  only  world  which  is  religious.  It 
is  the  world  of  which  Isaiah  and  Habakkuk  dreamed, 
in  which  "the  earth  should  be  filled  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  glory  of  God,  as  the  waters  cover  the  sea. " 

And  now  we  want  to  go  on  and  see  how  all  this  truth 
comes  to  the  full  display  of  its  richness  in  the  Christian 
faith.  The  Christian  faith  is  the  sum  and  flower  of  the 
religious  life  of  man.     Whatever  has  struggled  in  all 


48  The  Priority  of  God. 

other  religions  comes  to  its  free  and  full  expression 
there.  And  so  the  truth  of  the  priority  of  God  is  the 
first  and  fundamental  truth  of  Christianity.  Remem- 
ber how  it  all  begins.  Jesus  is  sitting  with  Nicode« 
mus,  and  telling  him  what  He  wants  him  to  believOo 
What  is  it  ?  Is  it  of  a  fermentation  in  humanity,  —  a 
loving  impulse,  a  reaching  up  of  man  after  a  Deity  whom 
he  has  discovered,  to  which  at  last  God,  out  of  His  dis- 
tant heaven,  graciously  responds  ?  It  distinctly  is  not 
that.  "  God  so  loved  the  world  that  he  gave  his  only 
begotten  Son. "  It  is  a  movement  from  the  side  of  God. 
Everything  which  Christianity  conceives  of  man  as  do- 
ing, everything  which  Christianity  bids  man  do,  is  in 
answer  to  some  previous  activity  of  God.  God  has 
given  a  law  which  you  have  broken.  That  is  sin.  God 
has  offered  a  forgiveness  and  new  life  which  you  may, 
which  you  must,  accept.  That  is  salvation.  Behold 
how  all  that  we  saw  in  the  relation  of  man  to  Nature, 
all  that  was  richly  involved  in  the  very  fact  of  Re- 
ligion, burns  out  in  most  complete  expression  in  the 
Religion  of  Religions,  in  the  Gospel  of  the  Son  of 
God,  who  becomes  the  Son  of  Man. 

If  I  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  narratives  and  see  how 
Jesus  approached  the  people  whom  He  wished  to  save, 
1  find  the  same  thing  everywhere.  Did  He  meet  them 
in  the  streets,  did  He  step  across  the  thresholds  of  their 
houses,  and  say  to  them,  "You  must  love  God,"  calling 
upon  them  for  an  adventurous  excursion  into  an  un- 
known land  to  which  they  could  not  tell  whether  they 
would  find  an  open  door  or  not  ?  It  was  always  a  rev- 
elation.    It  was  always,  "God  loves  you."     He  went 


Tlie  Priority  of  God.  49 

about  saying  that  from  house  to  house,  from  man  to 
man.  He  said  it  to  the  Publican,  the  Magdalen,  the 
Pharisee.  He  said  it  by  His  sermon,  His  miracle,  and 
finally  His  cross.  He  built  this  background  behind 
every  life.  He  spread  this  great  sky  over  every  soul, 
and  then  He  looked  to  see  the  great  compulsion,  "  You 
must  love  God, "  "  Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God, " 
grasp  every  nature,  not  as  a  hard  commandment,  but  as 
a  warm  necessity  to  which  the  nature  yields  as  a  cloud 
yields  to  the  atmosphere  and  melts  into  the  sky. 

What  will  you  do  if  you  are  sent  to  carry  the  Gospel 
to  your  friend,  your  child  ?  Will  you  stand  over  him 
and  say,  "You  must  love  God;  you  will  suffer  for  it 
if  you  do  not "  ?  When  was  ever  love  begotten  so  ? 
"  Who  is  God  ?  "  "  Why  should  I  love  Him  ?  "  "  How 
can  I  love  Him,"  answers  back  the  poor,  bewildered 
heart,  and  turns  to  the  things  of  earth  which  with  their 
earthly  affections  seem  to  love  it,  and  satisfies  itself  in 
loving  them.  Or  perhaps  it  grows  defiant,  and  says,  "  I 
will  not,"  flinging  back  your  exhortation  as  the  cold 
stone  flings  back  the  sunlight.  But  you  say  to  your 
friend,  your  child,  "  God  loves  you, "  say  it  in  every 
language  of  yours,  in  every  vernacular  of  his,  which  you 
can  command,  and  his  love  is  taken  by  surprise,  and  he 
wakes  to  the  knowledge  that  he  does  love  God  without 
a  resolution  that  he  will. 

So  it  is  that  children  come  to  love  their  fathers  and 
their  mothers  everywhere.  There  is  no  struggle  after 
an  uncertain  thing.  You  do  not  urge  them  or  exhort 
them.  They  are  set  into  the  lives  which  are  before 
their  lives,  and  the  love  of  those  lives  flows  into  them 

4 


/ 


50  Tlie  Priority  of  God. 

and  becomes  their  love.  The  real  reason  why  men  do 
not  love  God  is  that  they  do  not  really  believe  that  God 
loves  them.  That  does  not  take  their  blame  away,  but 
it  does  shift  it  and  put  it  in  the  right  place.  They  are 
to  blame,  grievously  to  blame,  because  they  have  made 
their  lives  so  base  and  poor  that  they  cannot  believe 
that  God  loves  them.  There  is  where  the  attack  must 
be  made  and  the  victory  won.  Fix  their  thoughts  not 
on  themselves  but  on  God.  Make  them  see  that  God  is 
such  that  He  must  love  His  children,  however  base  and 
poor  they  be,  and  then  love  becomes  possible  from  them 
to  Him,  because  its  great  cause,  its  depth  of  spiritual 
reason  and  reality,   is  there. 

Sometimes  far  out  at  sea  the  sailor  sees  the  sky 
grow  tremulous  and  troubled.  The  cloud  seems  to  be 
all  unable  to  contain  itself;  its  under  surface  wavers 
and  stretches  downward  toward  the  ocean.  It  is  as  if  it 
yearned  and  thirsted  for  the  .v^adred  water.  A  great 
grasping  hand  is  reached  downward  and  feels  after  the 
waves.  And  then  the  sailor  looks  beneath,  and  lo, 
the  surface  of  the  waves  is  troubled  too ;  and  out  from 
the  water  comes  first  a  mere  tremble  and  confusion, 
and  then  by  and  by  a  column  of  water  builds  itself, 
growing  steadier  and  steadier,  until  at  last  it  grasps  the 
hand  out  of  the  cloud,  and  one  strong  pillar  reaches 
from  the  sea  into  the  heavens,  from  the  heavens  to  the 
sea,  and  the  heavens  and  the  sea  are  one.  So  you  must 
make  man  know  that  God  loves  him,  and  then  look  to  \ 
see  man  love  God.  ijijl 

How  shall  you  make  man  know  that  God  loves  him  ? 
In  every  way,  —  there  is  no_speech  nor  language  in 


The  Priority  of  God.  51. 


which  that  voice  may  not  be  heard,  — but  most  of  all 
by  loving  the  man  with  a  great  love  yourself,  by  a  lofty 
and  generous  affection  of  which  he  shall  know  that, 
coming  through  you,  it  comes  from  beyond  you,  and 
say,  "  It  is  my  Father  that  my  brother  utters, "  and  so 
be  led  up  to  the  Father's  heart.  We  talk  about  men's 
reaching  through  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God.  It  is 
nothing  to  the  way  in  which  they  may  reach  through 
manhood  up  to  manhood's  God,  and  learn  the  divine 
love  by  the  human.  God  make  us  all  such  revelations 
of  His  love  to  some  of  His  children ! 

We  may  think  again  not  of  the  way  in  which  we  shall 
get  our  friends  and  brethren  to  love  God,  but  of  the  way 
in  which  we  shall  get  ourselves  to  love  Him.  Oh,  the 
old  struggles !  How  many  of  us  have  said,  "  I  will  love 
God;  I  ought  to,  and  I  will,"  and  so  have  wrestled 
and  struggled  to  do  what  they  could  not  do,  — what  in 
their  hearts  they  knew  no  real  reason  for  doing,  —  and 
have  miserably  failed,  and  now  are  satisfying  them- 
selves with  loveless  obedience,  or  else  have  left  God 
altogether  and  tell  their  hearts  that  they  must  forego 
all  such  beautiful,  hopeless  ambitions.  Ah,  my  friend, 
what  you  need  is  to  get  away  round  upon  the  other  side 
of  the  whole  matter.  It  is  not  whether  you  love  God 
but  whether  God  loves  you.  If  He  does,  and  if  you  can 
know  that  He  does,  then  give  yourself  up  totally  and 
unquestioningly  to  the  assurance  of  that  love.  Rejoice 
in  it  by  day  and  night.  Go  singing  for  the  joy  of  it 
about  your  work  and  your  play.  Let  no  man,  however 
wise,  persuade  you  that  you  have  not  a  right  to  the  sat- 
isfaction of  that  love.     You  have.     It  does  not  wait  for 


52  The  Priority  of  God. 

your  summons.  Of  course  it  does  not  wait  for  your  re- 
sponse. How  could  the  offer  say,  "  I  will  not  give  my- 
self to  you  till  you  accept  me  first  ?  "  But  as  you  go 
singing  for  joy  that  God  loves  you,  behold  the  response 
is  born  before  you  know  it,  and  you  are  loving  God  as 
countless  souls  have  always  loved  Him,  in  Saint  John's 
old  way,  "  because  He  first  loved  you. " 

Sometimes  it  seems  good  to  sweep  aside  all  the  com- 
plications of  spiritual  experience  and  bring  it  all  to 
absolute  simplicity.  Here  is  God,  and  here  is  a  child 
of  God.  The  Father  loves  the  child,  not  because  the 
child  is  this  or  that,  or  anything  but  just  His  child. 
He  says  to  you,  "  Go  save  my  child  for  me. "  And  you 
say,  "  How,  my  Father  ?  "  And  He  says,  "  By  Me. " 
And  you  say,  "  Yes,  I  see, "  and  go  and  take  the  Father's 
love  and  press  it  on  that  child  of  His,  just  as  you 
find  him.  You  do  not  ask  him  how  he  feels  about  it, 
any  more  than  you  ask  the  wood  how  it  feels  about  the 
fire  which  you  bring  to  it.  You  know  that  the  fire  and 
the  wood  belong  together.  You  are  sure  that  if  the 
fire  gets  at  the  wood,  the  wood  will  burn,  and  by  and 
by,  look !  the  wood  is  burning.  The  wood  turns  to  fire 
because  the  fire  gave  itself  to  the  wood.  The  wood 
loves  the  fire  because  the  fire  first  loved  it. 

It  is  the  way  in  which  one  man  gives  himself  to  an- 
other man ;  and  shall  God  be  more  cautious  and  prudent 
in  His  gift  ?  If  you  want  your  fellow-man  to  trust  you, 
you  must  trust  him  first.  With  frank,  free  cordialness 
you  give  yourself  to  him  and  he  responds.  All  stingy 
caution  and  reserve  defeats  itself.  The  same  trust,  only 
infinitely  greater,  is  in  the  Cross  of  Christ.     It  does 


The  Priority  of  God.  53 

not  always  at  once  succeed.  As  in  the  Parable,  God 
says,  "  They  will  reverence  my  Son, "  and  this  man  or 
that  gives  Him  not  reverence  but  scorn ;  but  neverthe- 
less it  is  that  trust  of  God  in  man  that  saves  the  world. 
God  trusts  Himself  to  man,  and  countless  souls  in 
answer  trust  themselves  to  God. 

Sometimes  the  great  world  and  the  human  life  which 
it  contains  grow  wonderfully  simple.  Its  mixed  confu- 
sion disappears.  Its  one  or  two  great  certainties  stand 
out  to  view.  It  all  seems  for  one  bright  moment  to  come 
just  to  this,  —  if  there  is  a  God,  everything  is  right,  if ' 
there  is  no  God,  everything  is  wrong.  And  there  is  a 
God.  There  is  a  God.  Therefore  all  is  right  at  the 
bottom  and  in  the  end.  Into  the  world  all  full  of  God 
comes  man,  and  God  is  there  before  him.  He  finds  God 
there.  God  takes  him  as  he  comes.  Sometimes  he 
talks  as  if  he  made  God,  and  could  make  God  over 
again  to  be  what  he  would.  But  God  made  him.  And 
it  is  to  the  God  who  made  him  that  he  comes.  "Of 
Him  and  through  Him  and  to  Him  are  all  things." 
All  is  well ! 

And  now  I  wonder  whether  in  some  of  your  minds 
there  does  not  come  a  question  regarding  all  this  that 
I  have  said.  "  After  all, "  you  may  ask  yourself,  "  what 
does  it  matter  ?  If  the  end  is  gained,  if  God  and  man 
come  together,  what  matter  is  it  from  which  side  the 
first  impulse  came,  —  whether  God  went  out  to  seek 
man,  or  man  with  daring  spiritual  impulse  rose  up  and 
went  and  clamored  at  the  gates  of  God  ?  "  But  must  it 
not  make  a  difference  ?  Is  there  a  situation  or  a  fact  or 
a  condition  anywhere  which  is  absolute  and  identical, 


54  The  Priority  of  God. 

and  does  not  vary  with  the  character  of  him  who  occu- 
pies it  ?  And  one  of  the  strongest  elements  in  making 
the  character  of  him  who  occupies  a  situation  is  the  way 
by  which  he  came  there.  It  is  not  enough  that  a  man 
stands  upon  the  mountain-top.  I  must  know  the  path 
by  which  he  climbed.  It  is  not  enough  that  a  man 
walks  in  the  dark  valley.  I  must  know  what  brought 
him  there.  The  man  is  more  than  the  situation.  The 
situation  means  little  without  the  soul  of  the  man  giv- 
ing it  its  meaning. 

When  then  I  see  man  reconciled  to  God  and  walking 
with  his  Lord  in  the  white  garment  of  a  new  life,  it 
makes  vast  difference  what  is  the  spirit  of  that  recon- 
ciled, regenerated  man.  If  it  is  the  first  fact  of  his  new 
existence  —  that  which  he  never  loses  for  a  moment  — 
that  the  impulse  of  it  came  from  God ;  that  God  sought 
him ;  that  before  he  ever  thought  of  the  higher  life,  its 
halls  were  made  ready  for  him,  and  its  Lord  came  forth 
into  the  wilderness  to  find  him  and  to  bring  him  in, 
—  then  the  strength  of  a  profound  humility  is  always 
with  him.  The  paralysis  of  pride  does  not  creep  over 
him.  Into  his  feebleness,  through  the  openness  of  his 
humility,  there  is  always  pouring  the  power  of  God. 
It  is  not  so  much  he  that  stands  upon  the  mountain  or 
walks  in  the  valley,  but  the  God  who  brought  him  there 
stands  or  walks  there  in  him ;  and  it  is  God's  work  that 
is  being  done,  God's  life  that  is  being  lived.  He  is 
full  of  the  humility  which  exalts  and  strengthens. 

Besides  this,  the  appeal  of  the  new  life  to  the  soul 
which  lives  it  is  largely  bound  up  with  the  truth  of  the 
priority  of  God.     To  know  that  long  before  I  cared  for 


I 


The  Priority  of  God.  55 

Him,  He  cared  for  me ;  that  while  I  wandered  up  and 
down  in  carelessness,  perhaps  while  I  was  plunging 
deep  in  flagrant  sin,  God's  eye  was  never  off  me  for  a 
moment,  He  was  always  watching  for  the  instant  when 
His  hand  might  touch  me  and  His  voice  might  speak  to 
me,  —  there  is  nothing  which  can  appeal  to  a  man  like 
that.  The  man  is  stone  whom  that  does  not  appeal  to. 
When,  touched  by  the  knowledge  of  that  untiring  love, 
a  man  gives  himself  at  last  to  God,  every  act  of  loving 
service  which  he  does  aftewards  is  fired  and  colored 
by  the  power  of  gratitude,  surprised  gratitude,  out  of 
which  it  springs.  How  shall  he  overtake  this  love  which 
has  so  much  the  start  of  him  ?  This  is  what  makes  his 
service  eager  and  enthusiastic.  It  is  a  "  reasonable  ser- 
vice, "  justified  by  the  sublime  reason  of  the  soul  which 
loves  its  God  because  He  first  loved  it. 

Again  this  truth,  that  God  is  first,  gives  me  the  right 
to  keep  a  strong  and  lively  hope  for  all  my  fellow-men. 
It  gives  me  also  the  chance  to  believe  that  I  can  help 
them.  It  is  all  hopeless  if  I  have  to  stir  them  from, 
their  lethargy  and  force  them  over  distant  hill  and  dale 
to  find  a  distant  God  who  will  not  care  about  them  till 
He  sees  them  coming.  But,  behold !  God  is  here.  He 
is  infinitely  nearer  to  them  than  I  can  come.  Perhaps 
they  are  loving  and  serving  Him  already  in  ways  which 
are  so  thoroughly  their  own  ways  that  I  cannot  recognize 
them.  I  have  only  to  tell  them  over  and  over  again 
how  near  He  is ;  I  have  only  to  beg  them  to  open  their 
eyes  and  see ! 

Sometimes  in  our  faithlessness  it  seems  to  us  as  if 
we  had  to  do  very  much  more  than  that.     It  seems  as  if 


56  The  Priority  of  God. 

we  had  to  go  and  find  God,  and  bid  Him  love  this  child 
of  His,  It  seems  as  if  we  had  to  remake  God's  child  into 
such  a  being  as  God  could  love !  We  almost  act  as  if 
we  must  introduce  God  and  this  man  to  one  another! 
Ah,  let  the  veil  drop  from  your  eyes !  See  how  it  really 
is !  God  loved  this  man  before  you  dreamed  of  loving 
him.  God  loves  him  deeper  than  you  imagine.  What 
can  you  do,  what  need  you  do,  but  hold  your  life  in 
such  a  way,  and  make  it  such  a  life,  that  besides  the 
direct  radiance  of  God's  love,  which  is  pouring  on  him 
all  the  time,  some  indirect  testimony  may  be  borne  by 
you,  that  so  this  brother  man  may  a  little  more  speed- 
ily and  clearly  see  the  love  of  God  X 

Have  I  talked  to-day  too  generally  of  the  priority  of 
God  ?  Then  make  it  absolutely  special  and  concrete. 
There  is  some  duty  which  God  has  made  ready  for  you 
to  do  to-morrow ;  nay,  to-day !  He  has  built  it  like  a 
house  for  you  to  occupy.  You  have  not  to  build  it.  He 
has  built  it,  and  He  will  lead  you  up  to  its  door  and  set 
you  with  your  feet  upon  its  threshold.  Will  you  go  in 
and  occupy  it  ?  Will  you  do  the  duty  which  He  has 
made  ready  ?  Perhaps  it  is  the  great  comprehensive 
duty  of  the  consecration  of  yourself  to  Him.  Perhaps 
it  is  some  special  task.  Whatever  it  is,  may  He  who 
anticipated  your  love  by  His  own  in  giving  you  the 
task,  now  help  you  to  fulfil  His  love  with  yours  by 
doiag  it.     Amen. 


I 


IV. 

IDENTITY  AND  VARIETY. 

There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of  the  moon,  and 
another  glory  of  the  stars  j  for  one  star  differeth  from  another  star  in 
glory.  —  1  Cor.  xv.  41. 

These  words  are  part  of  Saint  Paul's  great  argument 
for  immortality.  His  reasoning  has  caught  fire.  It  has 
become  far  more  than  a  mere  piece  of  logic,  although  it 
has  not  lost  its  logical  consistency.  Before  him  as  he 
reasons  there  has  opened  up  the  splendor  of  the  thing 
he  pleads  for ;  as  he  talks  of  heaven  he  has  been  caught 
up  into  heaven,  and  sees  the  glory  of  the  everlasting 
life. 

The  way  in  which  he  comes  to  the  particular  words 
which  are  my  text  is  this, — he  has  been  claiming  man's 
resurrection  on  the  strength  of  Christ's.  Christ  has 
risen  and  entered  into  glory.  Man  too,  because  he  is  one 
in  human  nature  with  Christ,  must  also  rise.  "Now. 
is  Christ  risen  from  the  dead,  and  become  the  firstfruits 
of  them  that  slept."  But  then  the  great  misgiving 
came.  Can  man's  life  undergo  a  change  like  that  and 
yet  be  truly  his  ?  Must  he  not  be  another  being  if  he 
enters  on  such  a  different  condition  ?  If  he  remains 
the  same  being,  must  he  not  ever  repeat  the  same  ex- 
periences which  are  bound  up  with  his  very  nature  ? 


58  Identity  and  Variety. 

Are  real  identity  and  such  variety  compatible  with  one 
another  ? 

Paul  sets  himself  to  answer  those  questions.  First 
comes  his  beautiful  parable  of  the  seed  and  the  plant. 
"That  which  thou  sowest  is  not  quickened  except  it 
die ;  and  that  which  thou  sowest,  thou  sowest  not  that 
body  which  shall  be,  but  bare  grain.  But  God  giveth 
it  a  body  as  it  hath  pleased  Him,  and  to  every  seed  its 
own  body. "  The  vital  principle  is  too  spiritual  to  be 
confined  to  one  form.  It  passes  from  one  form  into 
another  which  is  wholly  different,  and  yet  it  remains  es- 
sentially the  same.  The  buried  seed  and  the  wheat 
waving  in  the  sunshine  are  the  same,  and  yet  how  dif- 
ferent they  are !  Then  he  passes  to  a  yet  more  brilliant 
illustration.  There  is  a  power  of  life  which  pervades 
the  universe.  Everywhere  it  is  identical ;  everywhere 
it  is  glorious.  It  shines  in  everything.  By  it  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  are  clothed  with  radiance.  But  how 
different  is  the  splendor  which  it  gives  to  each!  It 
fills  each  with  itself;  and  lo,  the  result!  "There  is 
one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of  the  moon, 
and  another  glory  of  the  stars;  for  one  star  differeth 
from  another  star  in  glory,"  —  the  same  life  keeping 
itself  the  same  through  every  change,  yet  changing 
so  completely.  Shall  not  then  this  human  life,  still 
keeping  itself  the  same  human  life,  be  able  to  go  up  to 
heaven  and  stand  in  the  light  of  God  ?  That  is  Paul's 
argument. 

It  is  not  so  much  the  way  in  which  his  argument 
bears  upon  human  immortality  that  I  wish  to  speak 
about  to-day,  — though  to  that  we  will  return  at  last,-— 


Identity  and  Variety.  59 

it  is  rather  this  whole  idea  of  identity  and  variety  co- 
existing and  ministering  to  each  other,  and  of  the  in- 
terest and  beauty  which  that  idea  gives  to  the  world. 
But  notice  first  of  all  how  Saint  Paul  builds  his  argu- 
ment for  immortality  upon  the  richness  and  the  splendor 
of  this  mortal  life.  Because  this  world  is  so  great  and 
beautiful,  therefore  there  must  be  another  greater  and 
still  more  beautiful.  Often  enough  have  men  made 
heaven  a  compensation  for  the  woes  of  earth.  Often 
enough  have  men  said,  "  Because  this  world  is  so  full  of 
wretchedness,  therefore  there  must  be  another  world, 
where  the  starved  soul  shall  be  fed,  and  the  wounded 
soul  healed,  and  the  frozen  soul  warmed. "  Paul  makes 
heaven  not  a  compensation,  but  a  development.  Be- 
cause this  world  is  so  glorious,  therefore  the  glory  of 
heaven  must  be  surpassing  and  unspeakable.  How 
much  nobler  is  Paul's  way !  How  much  fuller  of  in- 
spiration and  of  genuine  faith ! 

One  sign  of  how  much  greater  Paul's  way  is,  lies  in 
the  higher  life  which  it  will  make  for  one  who  uses  and 
believes  in  it.  For  he  who  finds  in  the  manifold  glo- 
ries of  this  mortal  life  a  symbol  and  witness  of  the  glo- 
ries which  belong  to  immortality  will  always  be  led  to 
live  this  life  as  intensely  and  profoundly  as  he  can,  in 
order  that  the  higher  life  may  become  real  and  attrac- 
tive to  him.  Men  have  thought  that  they  must  separate 
themselves  from  earth  in  order  that  they  might  believe 
in  heaven.  Paul's  doctrine  says  emphatically,  "No!" 
He  says,  "  The  deeper  that  you  go  in  life,  the  more  life 
must  spread  itself  out  around  jou  and  become  eternity. 
He  who   gets  to  the   centre  feels  the   sphere.     Live 


60  Identity  and  Variety. 

lightly,  superficially,  and  formally,  think  little,  make 
little  of  life,  and  it  will  be  little  to  you.  Think  much, 
make  much  of  life,  and  it  will  assert  its  greatness  and 
prophesy  its  continuance."  Indeed  his  doctrine  seems 
to  teach  almost  this :  that  immortality  is  not  a  truth  to 
be  directly  striven  for  and  proved,  but  a  truth  which 
will  open  itself  to  and  fold  itself  around  the  man  who 
deeply  reaches  the  meaning  of  this  life,  —  the  man  who 
realizes  in  living  how  identity  and  variety  blend  and 
unite  to  make  the  richness  and  solemnity  of  existence. 

Identity  and  variety;  identity  and  difference.  Do 
we  not  feel  even  as  we  say  the  words  together  how 
they  express  together  the  tone  and  feeling  which  our 
thought  of  life  demands  ?  Identity  sounds  solid  and 
substantial ;  it  means  the  steady,  continuous,  unchanged 
quality  of  things;  it  almost  suggests  monotony;  it  is 
dimly  haunted  with  misgivings  and  fears  of  dulness. 
On  the  other  hand  variety  is  vital.  It  quivers  with  the 
constant  expectation  of  change ;  it  is  full  of  the  interest 
of  novelty ;  it  sparkles  and  rustles,  and  is  sensitive  and 
open  to  all  influences.  If  it  has  a  danger,  it  is  not  dul- 
ness but  restlessness;  not  heaviness  but  lightness  is 
what  it  has  to  dread.  But  join  the  two ;  quicken  iden- 
tity with  variety ;  steady  variety  with  identity ;  make 
the  man  always  himself,  yet  let  him  always  feel  the 
power  of  new  conditions  opening  around  him,  —  and  then 
have  you  not  made  the  best  and  happiest  life  ?  You 
have  preserved  at  once  responsibility  and  hope;  you 
have  gained  both  stability  and  movement;  your  man 
is  at  once  a  rock  to  build  on  and  a  wind  of  living 
inspiration. 


Identity  and  Variety.  61 

Think  of  the  men  whom  you  know  best  and  who  have 
been  most  to  your  life,  and  I  am  sure  that  you  will  find 
in  them  these  qualities  in  highest  union.  They  have 
been  the  men  who,  you  were  sure,  always  were  them- 
selves, and  yet  men  who  have  felt  the  largeness  and  rich- 
ness of  life,  and  so  who  have  made  changes  ever  from 
condition  to  condition.  In  the  union  of  these  two  quali- 
ties lay  their  helpfulness  and  strength. 

But  let  us  trace  a  little  more  largely  how  this  union 
of  identity  and  difference  pervades  the  universe,  and 
how  wherever  it  appears  it  gives  richness  and  depth. 

I  wish  I  knew  enough  of  the  great  world  of  physical 
Nature  to  realize  how  true  it  must  be  there,  in  the  re- 
gion to  which  Saint  Paul's  image  first  transports  the 
mind.  The  most  ignorant  observer,  the  merest  lounger 
by  the  rivers  or  among  the  mountains,  can  catch  sight 
of  it,  —  the  genuine  reality  of  Nature  as  one  true  exist- 
ence, and  yet  the  manifold  variety  with  which  the 
whole  earth  teems,  in  which  Nature  embodies  herself. 
The  lark  and  the  lily,  the  sunbeam  and  the  flashing 
river,  the  mountain  and  the  ocean  and  the  man,  —  it 
takes  but  the  most  elementary  sensitiveness  to  feel  the 
oneness  of  them  all ;  while  still  our  eyes  and  ears  and 
all  our  senses  are  tingling  with  the  tidings  of  their 
difference  which  they  are  always  sending.  I  stand  in 
awe  and  wonder  when  I  think  how  delightful  and  im- 
pressive this  must  grow  to  a  great  naturalist,  as  year 
after  year  he  learns  more  of  Nature's  countless  differ- 
ences ;  and  yet  year  by  year,  the  more  he  knows  her  dif- 
ferences, she  —  the  one  Nature,  the  single  being,  great 
and  gracious  —  issues  from  her  vast  variety,  and  shows 


62  Identity  and  Variety. 


herself  to  liim.  It  must  be  a  life  full  of  fascination, 
—  the  eternal,  undivided  glory  never  losing  its  divine 
unity,  ever  unfolding  itself  into  "  one  glory  of  the  sun, 
and  another  glory  of  the  moon,  and  another  glory  of 
the  stars." 

Pause  here  a  moment  as  we  pass,  to  think  how  when 
Saint  Paul  wants  to  depict  the  vast  variety  of  which  the 
world  is  full,  it  was  distinctly  as  a  variety  of  glory  that 
he  conceived  of  it.  Enough  he  knew  of  the  variety  of 
woe.  Easily  enough  he  might  have  depicted  how  man, 
the  same  man  still,  was  tossed  from  suffering  to  suffer- 
ing and  remained  the  same  identical  miserable  sufferer 
in  all.  It  would  have  been  the  same  truth  taught  upon 
its  darker  side.  But  Paul  knew  that  the  true  side  on 
which  to  teach  it  was  its  side  of  light.  The  real  va- 
riety of  life  is  a  variety  of  glories.  Such  a  choice  of 
the  side  from  which  to  draw  his  illustration  is  a  noble 
characteristic  of  Saint  Paul.  It  is  a  sign  of  how  healthy 
he  is.  Change  from  glory  into  glory,  — that  was  what 
life  seemed  to  him.  Remember,  it  is  no  rapturous  and 
untired  boy  who  is  talking;  it  is  a  man  all  sore  with 
sorrow,  beaten  and  broken  with  disappointment  and 
distress.  Is  it  not  a  sign  of  what  a  true  Christian  he 
was  that  life  seemed  to  him  still  to  be  only  a  variety 
and  constant  interchange  of  glories  ? 

But  turn  from  physical  Nature  and  think  of  the 
history  of  man.  How  true  it  is  that  history  cannot  be 
rightly  understood  unless  it  is  illumined  by  this  double 
truth  of  the  identity  and  difference  of  life.  The  ages 
come  and  go,  each  stamped  with  its  own  character. 
There  are  the  ages  of  war,  and  the  ages  of  peace ;  the 


Identity  and  Variety.  63 

centuries  of  thought,  and  the  centuries  of  action;  the 
times  of  faith,  the  times  of  philanthropy,  the  times  of 
philosophy,  the  times  of  prospect  and  of  retrospect,  of  cer- 
tainty and  of  doubt,  —  each  has  its  glory.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  inhabitants  of  each  it  seems  as  if  all  other  times 
were  inglorious  by  the  side  of  theirs.  The  truth  of  the 
difference  of  ages  is  most  manifest  and  claims  the  first 
importance ;  but  all  the  time  the  other  truth  of  identity 
is  always  true,  and  is  always  making  its  assertion. 
The  time  is  great  which  in  the  midst  of  its  self-value 
is  conscious  always  of  the  deeper  value  which  belongs 
to  the  long  life  of  man.  We  rejoice  in  the  nineteenth 
century.  We  believe  that  there  has  been  since  Adam 
no  century  so  good  to  live  in.  But  greater  than  the 
nineteenth  century  is  the  sum  of  all  the  centuries,  —  this 
varied,  ever-changing  life  of  man.  One  long,  unbroken 
nineteenth  century  from  Adam  all  the  way  to  us  would 
be  terrible  indeed.  The  ages  of  the  cloisters  and  the 
castles,  of  the  dreams  and  mysteries,  of  the  starlight 
and  the  moonlight,  they  are  all  needed  in  the  sky  of 
universal  history ;  each  of  them,  while  it  is  thoroughly 
itself,  may  be  proud  and  glad  of  all  the  rest. 

And  so  with  nations.  We  say  England,  France,  It- 
aly, America.  What  mere  geographers  we  are  unless 
as  we  say  each  of  those  names  a  very  being  stands  be- 
fore us,  —  a  being  with  a  character,  a  being  unlike  all 
the  others,  and  yet  bearing  a  true  identity  with  them 
because  both  it  and  they  are  made  of  men,  and  have 
shaped  all  their  ways  and  institutions  out  of  the  needs 
of  the  same  old  manhood  living  on  the  same  old  earth. 
The  nations  learn  more  and  more  how  the  advantage 


64  Identity  and  Variety. 

of  one  is  the  advantage  of  all.  Great  universal  tenden- 
cies are  bringing  them  to  more  and  more  of  likeness 
with  each  other.  Not  quite  so  far-away  and  impossible 
a  dream  appears  "the  parliament  of  man,  the  federa- 
tion of  the  world."  But  more  terrible  almost  than  that 
absolute  diversity  and  consequent  hostility,  would  be 
the  perfect  identity  of  nations.  The  nations,  like  great 
children,  match  themselves  with  each  other,  compare 
their  characteristics,  call  each  other  small  or  great,  are 
filled  with  contempt  or  envy ;  but  really  it  is  not  a 
question  of  smaller  or  greater,  it  is  a  question  of  the 
difference  of  glory.  Palestine  or  Grece  or  Rome,  — 
who  shall  decide,  who  cares  to  decide,  their  rank  ? 
"There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of 
the  moon,  and  another  glory  of  the  stars,"  and  all 
together  fill  the  radiant  sky. 

Or  take  another  illustration,  from  the  occupations  of 
mankind.  Three  men  are  close  together  on  the  street. 
One  of  them  makes  shoes,  another  writes  books,  an- 
other is  mayor  of  the  city.  It  is  foolish  and  false  to 
say  that  there  is  no  rank  and  precedence  between  the 
lives  which  those  three  men  live.  One  of  their  lives 
demands  higher  powers  and  offers  the  opportunity  of 
higher  education  than  the  others.  It  is  perfectly  right 
and  wise  that  the  shoemaker,  if  he  feels  in  himself  the 
power,  should  aspire  to  leave  his  shoemaker's  bench 
and  become  in  his  turn  the  mayor  of  the  city;  but 
there  are  other  truths  besides  this  truth  of  rank  and 
precedence.  The  truth  that  quite  apart  from  all  com 
parison  with  other  arts,  each  of  these  arts  has  abso 
lute  standards  of  its  own,  has  its  own  bad  ways  and 


Identity  a7id  Variety.  65 


good  ways  of  doing  its  own  work,  has  its  own  high 
and  noble  way  of  being  done ;  and  the  truth  that  each 
art,  so  far  as  it  lives  up  to  its  own  best  standards,  be- 
comes a  true  utterance  of  universal  human  nature, 
an  utterance  which  gets  its  value  from  the  fact  that  it 
is  at  once  identical  with  and  different  from  all  other 
utterances,  — these  are  the  real  truths  about  men's  arts 
and  occupations  which  are  most  important.  It  is  these 
truths  which  make  the  thronged  streets  of  a  great  city 
food  for  thought  and  imagination.  They  clothe  the  vast 
buildings  in  which  men  do  their  various  work  with  a 
fascination  and  an  interest  which  the  trees  of  the  state- 
liest forest  in  springtime  or  in  autumn  cannot  begin  to 
match;  they  give  dignity  and  pathos  and  meaning  to 
our  colleges  and  schools ;  they  make  the  richness  and 
the  harmony  of  all  active  life. 

And  so  our  illustrations  bring  us  at  last  to  human 
character.  There,  in  the  difference  and  the  identity  of 
personal  human  natures,  is  the  fullest  exhibition  of  the 
two  truths  of  identity  and  of  variety,  and  of  their  essen- 
tialness  to  one  another.  Here  is  the  endless  variety. 
Men  are  thoughtful  or  active,  spontaneous  or  mechani- 
cal, conservative  or  radical,  simple  or  elaborate,  — 
where  is  the  end  of  the  differences  which  we  might  de- 
scribe ?  And  yet  below  all  differences  men  are  men. 
The  endless  variations  are  all  wrought  upon  one  single 
mighty  strain.  Think  of  the  dreadful  loss  if  either  of 
these  truths  should  fail.  If  the  variety  fails,  mankind 
is  a  great,  dreary,  indistinguishable  monotony.  If  the 
identity  fails,  mankind  is  a  great  tumult  of  confused 
and   unharmonious    particles   which  have   no   kinship 

.6. 


66  Identity  and  Variety. 


with,  no  lesson  for,  each  other.  How  unreligious,  how 
unchristian  either  of  those  conditions  is  any  one  knows 
who  has  entered  at  all  deeply  into  the  truth  of  Christ 
and  into  the  spirit  of  the  Incarnation.  Christ  is  at  once 
the  inspiration  of  the  individual  and  also  the  assertion 
—  such  as  the  world  has  never  heard  before  —  of  the 
identity  of  man.  He  is  the  Eevealer  of  the  Father- 
hood of  God,  we  say.  Think  what  that  means.  He 
builds  mankind  into  a  family ;  and  where  as  in  a  family 
is  every  life  distinct  and  yet  are  all  lives  one  ?  That 
household  of  your  own,  —  is  not  its  beauty  here,  that 
in  it  every  child's  nature  and  ways  and  destiny  are  a  dis- 
tinct and  special  study,  and  yet  that  a  sweet,  subtle 
unity  runs  through  the  whole  and  makes  it  one  ?  One 
blood  runs  in  the  veins,  one  spirit  looks  out  of  the  eyes 
of  all,  —  identity  and  difference,  not  in  contention  with 
each  other  but  confederate,  helping  each  other,  make 
the  completeness  o*  the  family  life.  Conceive  Christ's 
thought  of  the  human  race ;  see  all  humanity,  as  he  saw 
it,  as  one  great  family ;  and  then  there  too  there  is  the 
harmony  of  these  two  truths,  and  every  man  honors  his 
individual  existence,  while  he  rejoices  in  the  oneness  of 
the  mighty  whole. 

A  new  child  is  born  into  the  world  to-day,  this  Sun- 
day morning.  What  shall  you  say  as  you  stand  beside 
his  cradle  ?  Shall  not  two  consciousnesses  fill  you  ? 
Shall  you  not  say  two  things :  First,  here  is  something 
new,  original,  and  strange,  —  another  apparition  on  the 
earth,  another  history  commenced,  different  from  any 
that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  That  fills  you  with  the 
fresh  delight  of  newness.     Curiosity,  inspiration,  exal- 


I 


Identity  and  Variety.  67 

tation  fill  your  heart.  But  you  say  also,  Lo,  the  old 
life-spirit  once  more  utters  itself.  Lo,  that  which  has 
heen  is  once  again.  The  tree  puts  forth  another  bud. 
The  chain  builds  on  another  link.  That  fills  you  with 
the  peaceful  sense  of  permanence,  and  lets  you  feel  the 
whole  humanity  and  the  God  of  humanity  holding  this 
infant  life.  In  the  union  of  these  two  emotions  lies 
the  best  fitness  for  the  wisest  work  that  you  can  do  in 
training  this  new  immortal. 

I  leave  the  statement  and  illustration  of  our  truth, 
and  turn  now  in  what  time  remains  to  point  out  very 
plainly  what  its  consequences  are,  what  sort  of  life  and 
conduct  it  will  make  in  him  who  understands  it  and 
accepts  it  as  his  law. 

First  of  all,  it  will  make  self-respect.  Here  are  you, 
seemingly  insignificant,  not  making  much  of  yourself, 
not  seeming  to  be  worthy  to  be  made  much  of.  Oh,  if 
you  could  know  two  things  about  yourself :  First,  that  you 
are  a  different  creature  from  any  that  the  world  has  ever 
seen ;  and  second,  that  you  are  a  true  utterance  of  the 
same  Spirit  of  Life  out  of  which  sprang  Isaiah  and  Saint 
John.  Indeed,  there  must  come  self-respect  from  both 
those  truths  together,  wrought  and  kneaded  into  the  very 
substance  of  a  human  nature.  It  is  some  glimpse  of  them 
which  makes  the  school-boy  idling  at  his  desk  on  some 
inspired  morning  gather  up  his  books  and  go  to  work. 
It  is  some  glimmer  of  these  in  his  poor  dark  soul  that 
gives  the  slave  the  power  to  look  boldly  in  his  eye  the 
master  who  is  flogging  him  and  keep  his  heart  untamed. 
It  is  the  simple  certainty  of  these  that  makes  it  easy 
for  the  laborer  who  digs  your  ditch  not  to  be  bullied  h-^ 


68  Identity  and  Variety. 

your  arrogant  wealth,  but  to  do  his  task  perfectly,  and 
report  it,  past  your  arrogant  patronage  or  fault-finding, 
to  God.  Every  act  has  its  appropriate  glory,  its  per- 
fect and  entire  way  of  being  done.  To  do  any  act  in 
its  perfect  way  is  a  perfect  act.  The  star  is  not  a  lit- 
tle sun ;  it  is  a  star.  It  is  not  a  fragment  broken  off 
from  the  great  orb  and  shining  with  a  broken,  fragmen- 
tary lustre ;  it  is  a  thing  by  itself.  It  has  its  own  way 
of  shining,  which  the  sun  itself  cannot  invade.  There 
is  one  glory  of  the  sun  and  another  glory  of  the  star. 
To  shine  itself  out  boldly  in  the  heavens  is  to  do  a  new, 
distinct  thing  which  makes  the  heavens  rich. 

I  would  that  I  could  make  this  clear  to  some  dis- 
turbed and  discontented  soul  which  is  here  this  morn 
ing.  You  are  a  star  and  not  a  sun.  God  forbid  that  i>. 
you  really  are  a  sun  and  not  a  star  any  arbitrary  com 
pulsion  should  keep  you  in  the  star's  place  and  shut 
you  out  of  the  sun's.  We  must  labor  everywhere  till 
there  is  perfect  freedom  for  every  nature  to  know  and 
be  itself.  But  you  do  know  yourself.  You  are  a  star 
and  not  a  sun.  Your  place  in  life  is  not  in  the  fore- 
front of  things ;  it  is  subordinate  and  secondary.  What 
then  ?  Can  you  learn  this  truth,  —  that  if  you  do  your 
work  with  complete  faitlifulness  and  with  the  most  abso- 
lute perfectness  with  which  it  is  capable  of  being  done, 
you  are  making  just  as  genuine  a  contribution  to  the 
substance  of  the  universal  good  as  is  the  most  brillant 
worker  whom  the  world  contains  ?  You  are  setting  as 
true  a  fact  here  between  the  eternities  as  he.  You  are 
doing  what  he  cannot  do.  It  is  Emerson's  fable  of  the 
Mountain  and  the  Squirrel,  — 


Identity  and  Variety.  69 

"  If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  my  back, 
Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

"There  is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of 
the  stars." 

All  our  works,  even  the  greatest,  arc  so  little  in  rela- 
tion to  the  world's  need;  all  our  works,  even  the  least, 
are  so  great  in  relation  to  the  doer's  faithfulness. 
There  is  the  secret  of  self-respect.  Oh,  go  take  up  your 
work  and  do  it.  Do  it  with  cheerfulness  and  love.  So 
shall  you  shine  with  a  glory  which  is  all  your  own,  — 
a  glory  which  the  great  heaven  of  universal  life  would 
be  poorer  for  missing. 

You  see  how  inevitably  respect  for  others  is  bound 
up  with  such  self-respect  as  this.  Let  us  turn  and  think 
of  that.  The  absorbing  character  of  a  great  enthusi- 
asm is  one  of  the  commonest  of  observations.  He  who 
cares  earnestly  for  anything  is  apt  to  care  very  little 
for  other  things,  and  is  apt  to  wonder  and  be  indignant 
that  other  people  do  not  care  as  much  as  he  does  for  the 
thing  he  cares  for.  How  the  philanthropist,  all  eager 
to  set  right  the  world's  tumultuous  wrongs,  chafes  and 
grows  furious  at  the  sight  of  the  recluse  or  scholar  sit- 
ting in  his  cell,  raking  over  the  ashes  of  history  or 
dreaming  of  the  sacred  elementary  and  abstract  truths ! 
Then  how  that  scholar,  if  he  looks  abroad,  is  ready  to 
despise  the  bustling  restlessness  which  is  forever  or- 
ganizing committees  and  petitioning  legislatures  and 
screwing  up  the  loosened  machinery  of  charity !  "  There 
is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of  the  moon, 
and  another  glory  of  the  stars;  for  one  star  differeth 
from  another  star  in  glory,"  —  is  not  that  the  very  truth 


70  Identity  and  Variety. 

which  such  despisers  of  their  brethren  need  to  under- 
stand ?  Sometimes  it  seems  as  if  such  narrowness  were 
necessary,  —  as  if  it  were  the  inevitable  price  which  you 
must  pay  for  earnestness  and  energy;  but  surely  that 
cannot  be  so,  surely  it  must  be  possible  for  men  to  be 
profoundly  devoted  to  their  own  work  and  yet  to  be  pro- 
foundly thankful  for  the  work  which  other  men  are  do- 
ing, —  work  which  they  could  not  do,  and  whose  details 
and  methods  it  is  not  in  their  natures  to  understand  and 
care  for.  Surely  I  may  claim  my  right  to  be  glad  and 
proud  that  the  great  singers  are  singing,  though  my 
ears  are  dull  to  music ;  and  that  the  great  sculptors  are 
carving,  even  if  my  soul  does  not  respond  to  art;  and 
that  the  great  statesmen  are  ruling,  though  my  quiet  life 
seems  to  be  lived  entirely  outside  the  region  of  their 
grand  ideas.     They  are  all  mine,  and  I  am  theirs. 

Is  this  a  fancy  ?  Is  it  a  mere  blind  struggle  to  en- 
large my  life,  whose  littleness  makes  it  intolerable  ? 
Not  if  I  genuinely  believe  in  God !  If  I  feel  Him  be- 
hind all  existence,  then  there  is  a  great  identity  estab- 
lished between  all  the  utterances  of  Him  throughout 
the  length  and  breadth  of  human  life.  The  volcanoes 
know  each  other,  —  Etna  crying  out  to  Vesuvius  across 
the  sea,  —  because  of  the  oneness  of  the  central  fire 
from  which  they  all  proceed.  Let  me  know  God,  the 
source  of  all  that  man  does  anywhere,  and  then,  0 
poet,  sing  your  song!  0  sculptor,  carve  your  statue! 
O  builder,  build  your  house!  0  engineer,  roll  out 
your  railroad  on  the  plain!  0  sailor,  sail  your  ship 
across  the  sea !  They  are  all  mine.  I  am  glad ;  I  am 
proud  of  them  all.     Is  it  not  what  Paul  wrote  so  trium- 


i 


Identity  and  Variety.  71 

phantly  to  his  disciples,  —  "  All  things  are  yours,  and 
you  are  Christ's,  and  Christ  is  God's "  ?  And  then 
that  everything  should  reach  its  best,  that  every  man 
should  do  his  best  in  his  own  line,  that  every  star 
should  shine  brightly  with  its  own  light,  becomes  the 
wish  and  prayer  and  purpose  of  my  life.  Here  is  the 
only  true  respect  for  fellow-man. 

All  this  applies  to  the  different  conditions  and  degrees 
in  which  we  see  other  men's  lives  to  stand ;  but  it  may 
also  be  made  to  apply  to  the  different  conditions  and 
degrees  into  which  we  may  think  of  our  lives  as  passing. 
You  or  I  are  this  to-day ;  to  morrow  or  next  year  we 
may  be  something  quite  different.  To-day  we  are  in- 
significant ;  to-morrow  or  next  year  we  may  be  illustri- 
ous and  prominent.  Or  just  the  opposite  —  to-day  we 
are  illustrious  and  prominent,  to-morrow  or  next  year 
we  may  be  insignificant.  How  shall  we  look  upon  those 
possibilities  of  change  ?  Is  not  this  what  we  want  ?  To 
see  each  condition  as  a  distinct  thing  with  its  own 
values  and  meanings,  and  yet  to  feel  how  our  human  life 
may,  still  the  same  that  it  is  now,  spread  itself  out  and 
come  to  larger  things.  This  harmonizes  contentment 
in  the  present  with  large-hearted  aspiration  after  greater 
fortunes.  Let  the  student  honor  his  studentship.  Let 
him  live  in  it  as  in  a  home  thoroughly  honorable  and 
worthy.  Let  him  think  of  it,  not  as  a  road  over  which 
he  is  compelled  to  travel,  but  as  a  dwelling  in  which 
he  has  the  privilege  of  living;  but  let  him  realize  him- 
self in  it  so  truly  that  whatever  else  he  may  be  capable 
of  doing  in  the  coming  years  may  seem  to  him  not  hope- 
less while  he  looks  forward  to  it,  an^  not  gtrange  or  uu- 


72  Identity  and   Variety. 

natural  when  it  arrives.  He  who  lives  so,  lives  in  a 
present  peace  which  the  large  hopes  of  the  future  dc 
not  disturb,  but  deepen. 

And  so  at  the  end  as  at  the  beginning  of  my  sermon 
I  touch  the  use  which  Saint  Paul  first  made  of  this  truth 
which  we  have  taken  from  him  for  our  study.  To  him 
it  was  a  proof  of  immortality.  He  would  have  men  live 
here  on  earth,  yet  conscious  of  their  capacity  of  Heaven. 
He  would  have  earth  real,  clear,  definite,  distinct, 
shining  with  its  own  color,  holding  us  with  its  own 
grasp ;  and  yet  he  would  have  man  so  conscious  of  his 
larger  self  that  the  very  definiteness  of  what  he  is  to- 
day makes  real  to  him  the  greater  thing  that  he  will  be 
in  the  vast  world  beyond. 

Is  not  that  what  we  want  ?  The  life  of  earth  now, 
the  life  of  heaven  by  and  by,  —  each  clear  with  its 
own  glory !  And  our  humanity  capable  of  both,  capable 
of  sharp  thinking,  timely  hard  work  here  and  now,  ca- 
pable also  of  the  supernal,  the  transcendent  splendor 
there  when  the  time  shall  come !  The  glory  of  the  star, 
the  glory  of  the  sun !  We  must  not  lose  either  in  the 
other;  we  must  not  be  so  full  of  the  hope  of  heaven 
that  we  cannot  do  our  work  on  earth;  we  must  not 
be  so  lost  in  the  work  of  earth  that  we  shall  not  be  in- 
spired by  the  hope  of  heaven.  God  grant  us  all  the 
contentment  and  the  hope  which  come  to  those  who 
live  in  Him  who  covers  all  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for- 
ever with  Himself. 


i 


V. 

THE  SEKIOUSNESS   OF  LIFE. 

Let  not  God  speak  to  us,  lest  we  die.  —  Ex.  xx.  19. 

The  Hebrews  had  come  up  out  of  Egypt,  and  were 
standing  in  front  of  Sinai.  The  mountain  was  full  of 
fire  and  smoke.  Thunderings  and  voices  were  bursting 
from  its  mysterious  awfulness.  Great  trumpet-blasts 
came  pealing  through  the  frightened  air.  Everything 
bore  witness  to  the  presence  of  God,  The  Hebrews 
were  appalled  and  frightened.  We  can  see  them  cower- 
ing and  trembling.  They  turn  to  Moses  and  beg  him 
to  stand  between  them  and  God.  "  Speak  thou  with 
us,  and  we  will  hear ;  but  let  not  God  speak  to  us,  lest 
we  die." 

At  first  it  seems  as  if  their  feeling  were  a  strange 
one.  This  is  their  God  who  is  speaking  to  them,  their 
God  who  brought  them  "  out  of  the  Land  of  Egypt,  out 
of  the  House  of  Bondage. "  Would  it  not  seem  as  if 
they  would  be  glad  to  have  Him  come  to  them  directly, 
to  have  Him  almost  look  on  them  with  eyes  that  they 
could  see,  and  make  unnecessary  the  interposition  of 
His  servant  Moses,  bringing  them  messages  from  Him  ? 
Will  they  not  feel  their  whole  history  of  rescue  coming 
to  its  consummation  when  at  last  they  find  themselves 


74  The  Seriousness  of  Life. 

actually  in  the  presence  of  the  God  who  has  delivered 
them,   and  hear  His  voice  ? 

That  is  the  first  question,  but  very  speedily  we  feel 
how  natural  that  is  which  actually  did  take  place.  The 
Hebrews  had  delighted  in  God's  mercy.  They  had 
come  singing  up  out  of  the  Red  Sea.  They  had  fol- 
lowed the  pillar  of  fire  and  the  pillar  of  cloud.  They 
had  accepted  God's  provision  for  their  hunger.  They 
had  received  Moses,  whom  God  had  made  their  leader. 
But  now  they  were  called  on  to  face  God  Himself.  ,  In 
behind  all  the  superficial  aspects  of  their  life  they  were 
called  on  to  get  at  its  centre  and  its  heart.  In  behind 
the  happy  results,  they  were  summoned  to  deal  with  the 
mysterious  and  mighty  cause.  There  they  recoiled. 
"  Nay, "  they  said,  "  let  us  go  on  as  we  are.  Let  life 
not  become  so  terrible  and  solemn.  We  are  willing 
to  know  that  God  is  there.  We  are  willing,  we  are 
glad,  that  Moses  should  go  into  His  presence  and  bring 
us  His  messages.  But  we  will  not  come  in  sight  of 
Him  ourselves.  Life  would  be  awful.  Life  would  be 
unbearable.     Let  not  God  speak  with  us,  lest  we  die ! " 

I  want  to  bid  you  think  this  morning  how  natural  and 
how  common  such  a  temper  is.  There  are  a  few  people 
among  us  who  are  always  full  of  fear  that  life  will  be- 
come too  trivial  and  petty.  There  are  always  a  great 
many  people  who  live  in  perpetual  anxiety  lest  life 
shall  become  too  awful  and  serious  and  deep  and  sol- 
emn. There  is  something  in  all  of  us  which  feels  that 
fear.  We  are  always  hiding  behind  effects  to  keep  out 
of  sight  of  their  causes,  behind  events  to  keep  out  of 
sight  of  their  meanings,   behind  facts  to  keep  out  of 


I 


TTie  Seriousness  of  Life.  75 

sight  of  principles,  behind  men  to  keep  out  of  the  sight 
of  God.  Because  that  is  such  poor  economy ;  because 
the  only  real  safety  and  happiness  of  life  comes  from 
looking  down  bravely  into  its  depths  when  they  are 
opened  to  us,  and  fairly  taking  into  account  the  pro- 
fomidest  meanings  of  existence ;  because  not  death  but 
life,  the  fullest  and  completest  life,  comes  from  letting 
God  speak  to  us  and  earnestly  listening  while  He 
speaks,  — for  these  reasons  I  think  this  verse  will  have 
something  to  say  to  us  which  it  will  be  good  for  us 
to  hear. 

We  have  all  known  men  from  whom  it  seemed  as  if 
it  would  be  good  to  lift  away  some  of  the  burden  of  life, 
to  make  the  world  seem  easier  and  less  serious.  Some 
such  people  perhaps  we  know  to-day;  but  as  we  look 
abroad  generally  do  we  not  feel  sure  that  such  people 
are  the  exceptions  ?  The  great  mass  of  people  are 
stunted  and  starved  with  superficialness.  They  never 
get  beneath  the  crust  and  skin  of  the  things  with  which 
they  deal.  They  never  touch  the  real  reasons  and  mean- 
ings of  living.  They  turn  and  hide  their  faces,  or  else 
run  away  when  those  profoundest  things  present  them- 
selves. They  will  not  let  God  speak  with  them.  So 
all  their  lives  lack  tone;  nothing  brave,  enterprising, 
or  aspiring  is  in  them.  Do  you  not  know  it  well  ?  Do 
you  not  feel  it  everywhere  ? 

For  we  may  lay  it  down  as  a  first  principle  that  he 
who  uses  superficially  any  power  or  any  person  which 
he  is  capable  ot  using  profoundly  gets  harm  out  of  that 
unaccepted  o})portunity  which  he  lets  slip.  You  talk 
with  some   slight  acquaintance,   some   man   of  small 


76  The  Seriousness  of  Life. 

capacity  and  little  depth,  about  ordinary  things  in  very 
ordinary  fashion ;  and  you  do  not  suffer  for  it.  You  get 
all  that  he  has  to  give.  But  you  hold  constant  inter- 
course with  some  deep  nature,  some  man  of  great 
thoughts  and  true  spiritual  standards,  and  you  insist 
on  dealing  merely  with  the  surface  of  him,  touching 
him  only  at  the  most  trivial  points  of  living,  and  you 
do  get  harm.  The  unused  capacity  of  the  man  —  all 
which  he  might  be  to  you,  but  which  you  are  refusing 
to  let  him  be  —  is  always  there,  demoralizing  you.  If 
you  knew  that  a  boy  would  absolutely  and  utterly  shut 
his  nature  up  against  the  high  influences  of  the  best 
men,  would  you  not  think  it  good  for  him  to  live  not 
with  them  but  with  men  of  inferior  degree,  in  whom  he 
should  not  be  always  rejecting  possibilities  which  he 
ought  to  take  ?  A  dog  might  live  with  a  wise  man,  and 
remaining  still  a  dog,  be  all  the  better  for  the  wise 
man's  wisdom,  which  he  never  rejected  because  he  could 
not  accept  it.  But  a  brutish  man  who  lived  with  the 
sage  and  insisted  that  he  would  be  still  a  brute,  would 
become  all  the  more  brutish  by  reason  of  the  despised 
and  neglected  wisdom. 

Now  we  have  only  to  apply  this  principle  to  life  and 
we  have  the  philosophy  and  meaning  of  what  I  want  to 
preach  to  you  this  morning.  It  is  possible  to  conceive 
of  a  world  which  should  offer  the  material  and  opportu- 
nity of  nothing  but  superficialness,  —  nothing  but  the 
making  of  money  and  the  eating  of  bread  and  the  playing 
of  games ;  and  in  that  world  a  man  might  live  superfi- 
cially and  get  no  harm.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  possible 
to  conceive  of  a  man  who  had  no  capacity  for  anything 


The  Seriousness  of  Life.  77 

but  superficialness  and  frivolity  and  dealing  with  sec- 
ond causes ;  and  that  man  might  live  superficially  even 
in  this  deep,  rich  world  in  which  we  live,  and  get  no 
harm.  But  —  here  is  the  point  —  for  this  man  with 
his  capacities  to  live  in  this  world  with  its  oppor- 
tunities and  yet  to  live  on  its  surface  and  to  refuse  its 
depths,  to  turn  away  from  its  problems,  to  reject  the 
^>fyoice  of  God  that  speaks  out  of  it,  is  a  demoralizing 
and  degrading  thing.  It  mortifies  the  unused  pow- 
ers, and  keeps  the  man  always  a  traitor  to  his  privi- 
leges and  his  duties. 

Take  one  part  of  life  and  you  can  see  it  very  plainly. 
Take  the  part  with  which  we  are  familiar  here  in  church. 
Take  the  religious  life  of  man.  True  religion  is,  at 
its  soul,  spiritual  sympathy  with,  spiritual  obedience 
to  God.  But  religion  has  its  superficial  aspects,  —  first 
of  truth  to  be  proved  and  accepted,  and  then,  still  more 
superficial,  of  forms  to  be  practised  and  obeyed.  Now 
suppose  that  a  man  setting  out  to  be  religious  confines 
himself  to  these  superficial  regions  and  refuses  to  go 
further  down.  He  learns  his  creed  and  says  it.  He 
rehearses  his  ceremony  and  practises  it.  The  deeper 
voice  of  his  religion  cries  to  him  from  its  unsounded 
depths,  "  Come,  understand  your  soul !  Come,  through 
repentance  enter  into  holiness !  Come,  hear  the  voice 
of  God."  But  he  draws  back;  he  piles  between  him- 
self and  that  importunate  invitation  the  cushions  of  his 
dogma  and  his  ceremony.  "Let  God's  voice  come  to 
me  deadened  and  softened  through  these,"  he  says. 
"  Let  not  God  speak  to  me,  lest  I  die.  Speak  thou  to 
toe  and  I  will  hear. "     So  he  cries  to  his  priest,  to  his 


78  The  Seriousness  of  Life. 

sacrament,  which  is  his  Moses.  Is  he  not  harmed  by 
that  ?  Is  it  only  that  he  loses  the  deeper  spiritual  power 
which  he  might  have  had  ?  Is  it  not  also  that  the  fact 
of  its  being  there  and  of  his  refusing  to  take  it  makes 
his  life  unreal,  fills  it  with  a  suspicion  of  cowardice, 
and  puts  it  on  its  guard  lest  at  any  time  this  ocean  of 
spiritual  life  which  has  been  shut  out  should  hurst 
through  the  barriers  which  exclude  it  and  come  pouring 
in  ?  Suppose  the  opposite.  Suppose  the  soul  so  sum- 
moned accepts  the  fulness  of  its  life.  It  opens  its  ears 
and  cries,  "  Speak,  Lord,  for  thy  servant  heareth. "  It 
invites  the  infinite  and  eternal  aspects  of  life  to  show 
themselves.  Thankful  to  Moses  for  his  faithful  leader- 
ship, it  is  always  pressing  through  him  to  the  God  for 
whom  he  speaks.  Thankful  to  priest  and  church  and 
dogma,  it  will  always  live  in  the  truth  of  its  direct, 
immediate  relationship  to  God,  and  make  them  minis- 
ter to  that.  What  a  consciousness  of  thoroughness  and 
safety;  what  a  certain,  strong  sense  of  resting  on  the 
foundation  of  all  things  is  there  then!  There  are  no 
closed,  ignored  rooms  of  the  universe  out  of  which  un- 
expected winds  may  blow,  full  of  dismay.  The  sky  is 
clear  above  us,  though  we  have  not  soared  to  its  farth- 
est height.  The  ocean  is  broad  before  us,  though  we 
have  not  sailed  through  all  its  breadth. 
^/0h,  my  dear  friends,  do  not  let  your  religion  satisfy 
itself  with  anything  less  than  God.  Insist  on  having 
your  soul  get  at  Him  and  hear  His  voice.  Never,  be- 
cause of  the  mystery,  the  awe,  perhaps  the  perplexity 
and  doubt  which  come  with  the  great  experiences,  let 
yourself  take  refuge  in  the  superficial  things  of  faith. 


The  Seriuiisness  of  Life.  79 

It  is  better  to  be  lost  on  the  ocean  than  to  be  tied  to  the 
shore.  It  is  better  to  be  overwhelmed  with  the  great- 
ness of  hearing  the  awful  voice  of  God  than  to  become 
satisfied  with  the  piping  of  mechanical  ceremonies  or 
the  lullabies  of  traditional  creeds.  Therefore  seek 
great  experiences  of  the  soul,  and  never  turn  your  back 
on  them  when  God  sends  them,  as  He  surely  will ! 

The  whole  world  of  thought  is  full  of  the  same  neces 
sity  and  the  same  danger.  A  man  sets  himself  to  thinlr 
of  this  world  we  live  in.  He  discovers  facts.  He  ar- 
ranges facts  into  what  he  calls  laws.  Behind  his  laws 
he  feels  and  owns  the  powers  to  which  he  gives  the 
name  of  force.  There  he  sets  his  feet.  He  will  go  no 
further.  He  dimly  hears  the  depth  below,  of  final 
causes,  of  personal  purposes,  roaring  as  the  great  ocean 
roars  under  the  steamship  which,  with  its  clamorous 
machineries  and  its  precious  freight  of  life,  goes  sailing 
on  the  ocean's  bosom.  You  say  to  him,  "Take  this 
into  your  account.  Your  laws  are  beautiful,  your 
force  is  gracious  and  sublime.  But  neither  is  ultimate. 
You  have  not  reached  the  end  and  source  of  things  in 
these.  Go  further.  Let  God  speak  to  you. "  Can  you 
not  hear  the  answer  ?  "  Nay,  that  perplexes  all  things. 
That  throws  confusion  into  what  we  have  made  plain 
and  orderly  and  clear.  Let  not  God  speak  to  us,  lest 
we  die ! "  You  think  what  the  study  of  Nature  might 
become,  if,  keeping  every  accurate  and  careful  method 
of  investigation  of  the  way  in  which  the  universe  is  gov- 
erned and  arranged,  it  yet  was  always  hearing,  always 
rejoicing  to  hear,  behind  all  methods  and  governments 
and  machineries,  the  sacred  movement  of  the  personal 


80  TJie  Seriousness  of  Life. 

will  and  nature  which  is  the  soul  of  all.  Whether  we 
call  such  hearing  science  or  poetry,  it  matters  not.  If 
we  call  it  poetry,  we  are  only  asserting  the  poetic  issue 
of  all  science.  If  we  call  it  science,  we  are  only  de- 
claring that  poetry  is  not  fiction  but  the  completest 
truth.  The  two  unite  in  religion,  which  when  it  has 
its  full  chance  to  do  all  its  work  shall  bring  poetry  and 
science  together  in  the  presence  of  a  recognized  God, 
whom  the  student  then  shall  not  shrink  from,  but  de- 
light to  know,  and  find  in  Him  the  illumination  and  the 
harmony  of  all  his  knowledge. 

The  same  is  true  about  all  motive.  How  men  shrink 
from  the  profoundest  motives !  How  they  will  pretend 
that  they  are  doing  things  for  slight  and  superficial  rea- 
sons when  really  the  sources  of  their  actions  are  in  the 
most  eternal  principles  of  things,  in  the  very  being  of 
God  Himself.  I  stop  you  and  ask  you  why  you  give 
that  poor  man  a  dollar,  and  you  give  me  some  account 
of  how  his  poverty  offends  your  taste,  of  how  unpleasant 
it  is  to  behold  him  starve.  I  ask  you  why  you  toil  at 
your  business  day  in  and  day  out,  year  after  year.  I 
beg  you  to  tell  me  why  you  devote  yourself  to  study,  and 
you  reply  with  certain  statements  about  the  attractive- 
ness of  study  and  the  way  in  which  every  extension  or 
increase  of  knowledge  makes  the  world  more  rich.  All 
that  is  true,  but  it  is  slight.  It  keeps  the  world  thin. 
This  refusal  to  trace  any  act  back  more  than  an  inch 
into  that  world  of  motive  out  of  which  all  acts  spring, 
this  refusal  especially  to  let  acts  root  themselves  in  Him 
who  is  the  one  only  really  worthy  cause  why  anything 
should  be  done  at  all,  —  this  is  what  makes  life  grow  so 


'lite  Seriousness  of  Life.  81 

thin  to  the  feeling  of  men  who  live  it;  this  is  what 
makes  men  wonder  sometimes  that  their  brethren  can 
find  it  worth  while  to  keep  on  working  and  living,  even 
while  they  themselves  keep  on  at  their  life  and  work  in 
the  same  way.  This  is  the  reason  why  men  very  often 
fear  that  the  impulse  of  life  may  give  out  before  the 
time  comes  to  die,  and  shudder  as  they  think  how  awful 
it  will  be  to  go  on  living  with  the  object  and  the  zest  of 
life  all  dead.  Such  a  fear  never  could  come  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  man  who  felt  the  fountain  of  God's  infinite 
being  behind  all  that  the  least  of  God's  children  did 
for  love  of  Him. 

I  know  very  well  how  all  this  which  I  have  under- 
taken to  preach  this  morning  may  easily  be  distorted 
and  misunderstood.  It  may  seem  to  be  the  setting 
forth  of  a  sensational  and  unnatural  idea  of  life,  the 
struggle  after  which  will  only  result  in  a  histrionic 
self-consciousness,  a  restless,  discontented  passion  for 
making  life  seem  intense  and  awful,  when  it  is  really 
commonplace  and  tame.  "Let  us  be  quiet  and  natu- 
ral," men  say,  "and  all  will  be  well."  But  the  truth 
is  that  to  be  natural  is  to  feel  the  seriousness  and 
depth  of  life,  and  that  no  man  does  come  to  any  worthy 
quietness  who  does  not  find  God  and  rest  on  Him  and 
talk  with  Him  continually.  The  contortions  of  the  sen- 
sationalist must  not  blind  us  to  the  real  truth  of  that 
which  he  grotesquely  parodies.  His  blunder  is  not  in 
thinking  that  life  is  earnest,  but  in  trying  to  realize  its 
earnestness  by  stirring  up  its  surface  into  foam  instead 
of  piercing  down  into  its  depths,  where  all  is  calm.  Yet 
even  he,  grotesque  and  dreadful  as  he  is,  seems  almost 

6 


82  The  Seriousness  of  Life. 

better  than  the  imperturbably  complacent  soul  who  re- 
fuses to  believe  that  life  is  serious  at  all. 

The  whole  trouble  comes  from  a  wilful  or  a  blind 
underestimate  of  man.  "  Let  not  God  speak  to  me,  lest 
I  die,"  the  man  exclaims.  Is  it  not  almost  as  if  the 
fish  cried,  "Cast  me  not  into  the  water,  lest  I  drown," 
or  as  if  the  eagle  said,  "  Let  not  the  sun  shine  on  me, 
lest  I  be  blind. "  It  is  man  fearing  his  native  element. 
He  was  made  to  talk  with  God.  It  is  not  death,  but  his 
true  life,  to  come  into  the  divine  society  and  to  take  his 
thoughts,  his  standards,  and  his  motives  directly  out 
of  the  hand  of  the  eternal  perfectness.  Man  does  not 
know  his  own  vitality,  and  so  he  nurses  a  little  quiver 
of  flame  and  keeps  the  draught  away  from  it,  when  if 
he  would  only  trust  it  and  throw  it  bravely  out  into  the 
wind,  where  it  belongs,  it  would  blaze  into  the  true  fire 
it  was  made  to  be.  We  find  a  revelation  of  this  in  all 
the  deepest  and  highest  moments  of  our  lives.  Have 
you  not  often  been  surprised  by  seeing  how  men  who 
seemed  to  have  no  capacity  for  such  experiences  passed 
into  a  sense  of  divine  companionship  when  anything 
disturbed  their  lives  with  supreme  joy  or  sorrow  ? 
Once  or  twice,  at  least,  in  his  own  life,  almost  every 
one  of  us  has  found  himself  face  to  face  with  God,  and 
felt  how  natural  it  was  to  be  there.  Then  all  interpre- 
ters and  agencies  of  Him  have  passed  away.  He  has 
looked  in  on  us  directly ;  we  have  looked  immediately 
upon  Him ;  and  we  have  not  died,  — we  have  supremely 
lived.  We  have  known  that  we  never  had  so  lived  as 
then.  We  have  been  aware  how  natural  was  that  direct 
sympathy   and   union   and   communication  with   God. 


The  Seriousness  of  Life.  83 

And  often  the  question  has  come,  "  What  possible  rea- 
son is  there  why  this  should  not  be  the  habit  and  fixed 
condition  of  our  life  ?  Why  should  we  ever  go  back 
from  it  ?  "  And  then,  as  we  felt  ourselves  going  back 
from  it,  we  have  been  aware  that  we  were  growing  un- 
natural again ;  we  were  leaving  the  heights,  where  our 
souls  breathed  their  truest  air,  and  going  down  into  the 
valleys,  where  only  long  habit  and  an  educated  distrust 
of  our  own  high  capacity  had  made  us  feel  ourselves 
more  thoroughly  at  home. 

And  as  this  is  the  revelation  of  the  highest  mo- 
ments of  every  life,  so  it  is  the  revelation  of  the 
highest  lives;  especially  it  is  the  revelation  of  the 
highest  of  all  lives,  the  life  of  Christ.  Men  had  been 
saying,  "  Let  not  God  speak  to  us,  lest  we  die ; "  and 
here  came  Christ,  the  man,  —  Jesus,  the  man ;  and 
God  spoke  with  Him  constantly,  and  yet  He  lived  with 
the  most  complete  vitality.  He  was  the  livest  of  all 
living  men.  God  spoke  with  Him  continually.  He 
never  did  a  deed,  He  never  thought  a  thought,  that  He 
did  not  carry  it  back  with  His  soul  before  it  took  its 
final  shape  and  get  His  Father's  judgment  on  it.  He 
lifted  His  eyes  at  any  instant  and  talked  through  the 
open  sky,  and  on  the  winds  came  back  to  Him  the  an- 
swer. He  talked  with  Pilate  and  with  Peter,  with 
Herod  and  with  John ;  and  yet  his  talk  with  them  was 
silence ;  it  did  not  begin  to  make  His  life,  to  be  His 
life,  compared  with  that  perpetual  communion  with  His 
Father  which  made  the  fundamental  consciousness  as  it 
made  the  unbroken  habit  of, His  life.  All  this  is  true 
of  Jesus.     You  who  know  tl^e  rich  story  of  the  Gospels 


84  The  Seriousness  of  Zife. 

know  how  absolutely  it  is  true  of  Him.  And  the  strange 
thing  about  it  is  that  the  life  of  which  all  this  is  true  is 
felt  at  once  to  be  the  most  natural,  the  most  living  life 
which  the  world  has  ever  seen.  Imagine  Jesus  saying 
those  words  which  the  Hebrews  said:  "Let  not  God 
speak  to  me,  lest  I  die. "  You  cannot  put  those  words 
upon  His  lips.  They  will  not  stay  there.  "0  God, 
speak  to  me,  that  I  may  live, "  —  that  is  the  prayer  with 
which  He  comes  out  of  the  stifling  air  of  the  synagogue 
or  the  temple,  out  of  the  half-death  of  the  mercenary 
streets,  out  of  the  foolish  rivalries  and  quarrellings  of 
His  disciples. 

And  every  now  and  then  a  great  man  or  woman  comes 
who  is  like  Christ  in  this.  There  comes  a  man  who 
naturally  drinks  of  the  fountain  and  eats  of  the  es- 
sential bread  of  life.  Where  you  deal  with  the  mere 
borders  of  things  he  gets  at  their  hearts;  where  you 
ask  counsel  of  expediencies,  he  talks  with  first  princi- 
ples ;  where  you  say,  "  This  will  be  profitable, "  he  says, 
"This  is  right."  Remember  I  am  talking  about  him 
now  only  with  reference  to  this  one  thing,  — that  when 
men  see  him  they  recognize  at  once  that  it  is  from 
abundance  and  not  from  defect  of  vitality  that  this  man 
lives  among  the  things  which  are  divine.  Is  there  one 
such  man  —  it  may  be  one  such  boy  —  in  the  store 
where  all  the  rest  of  you  are  working  for  rivalry  or  ava- 
rice ?  Is  there  one  who  works  from  principle,  one  who 
works  for  God;  and  will  you  tell  me  whether  you  do 
not  all  count  him  the  most  genuinely  living  of  you  all  ? 

The  student  of  history  knows  very  well  that  there  are 
certain  ages  and  certain  races  which  more  than  other 


The  Seriousness  of  Life.  85 

ages  seem  to  have  got  down  to  the  fundamental  facts, 
and  to  be  living  by  the  elemental  and  eternal  forces,  — 
ages  and  races  which  are  always  speaking  with  God. 
So  we  all  feel  about  the  Hebrews.  The  divine  voice 
was  always  in  their  ears.  Often  they  misunderstood  it. 
Often  they  thought  they  heard  it  when  it  was  only  the 
echo  of  their  own  thoughts  and  wishes  that  they  heard ; 
but  the  desire  to  hear  it,  the  sense  that  life  consisted  in 
hearing  it, —  that  never  left  them.  And  so,  too,  we  feel, 
or  ought  to  feel,  about  the  great  Hebrew  period  of  our 
own  race,  the  Puritan  century,  in  which  everything 
was  probed  to  the  bottom,  all  delegated  authorities  were 
questioned,  and  earnestness  everywhere  insisted  upon 
having  to  do  immediately  with  God.  Plenty  of  crude, 
gross,  almost  blasphemous  developments  of  this  insist- 
ence set  themselves  forth ;  but  the  fact  of  the  insistence 
was  and  still  is  most  impressive.  It  never  frightened 
the  Puritan  when  you  bade  him  stand  still  and  listen  to 
the  speech  of  God.  His  closet  and  his  church  were  full 
of  the  reverberations  of  the  awful,  gracious,  beautiful 
voice  for  which  he  listened.  He  made  little,  too  little, 
of  sacraments  and  priests,  because  God  was  so  intensely 
real  to  him.  What  should  he  do  with  lenses  who  stood 
thus  full  in  the  torrent  of  the  sunshine  ?  And  so  the 
thing  which  makes  the  history  of  the  Puritans  so  im- 
pressive is  the  sense  that  in  them  we  come  close  to  the 
great  first  things.  We  are  back  behind  the  temporary, 
special  forms  of  living,  on  the  bosom  of  the  primitive 
eternal  life  itself. 

When  we  turn  suddenly  from  their  time  to  our  own 
time  what   a   difference   there   is !      At   least  what   a 


L 


86  The  Seriousness  of  Life. 


difference  there  is  between  all  their  time  and  a  part 
of  ours.  For  our  time  is  not  capable  of  being  charac- 
terized as  generally  and  absolutely  as  theirs.  It  has 
'many  elements.  Certainly  it  lias  much  of  Puritanism. 
The  age  which  has  had  Carlylc  for  its  prophet,  and 
which  has  fought  out  our  war  against  slavery  has  not 
lost  its  Puritanism.  But  the  other  side  of  our  life, 
how  far  it  is  from  the  first  facts  of  life,  from  God,  who 
is  behind  and  below  everything !  When  I  listen  to  our 
morals  finding  their  sufficient  warrant  and  only  recog- 
nized authority  in  expediency ;  when  I  behold  our  poli- 
tics abandoning  all  ideal  conceptions  of  the  nation's  life 
and  talking  as  if  it  were  only  a  great  mercantile  estab- 
lishment, of  which  the  best  which  we  can  ask  is  that  it 
should  be  honestly  run ;  when  I  see  society  conceiving 
no  higher  purpose  for  its  activities  than  amusement; 
when  I  catch  the  tone  of  literature,  of  poetry,  and  of 
romance,  abandoning  large  themes,  studiously  and  de- 
liberately giving  up  principles  and  all  heroic  life,  and 
making  itself  the  servant  and  record  of  what  is  most 
sordid  and  familiar,  sometimes  even  of  what  is  most 
uncomely  and  unclean;  when  I  think  of  art  grown 
seemingly  incapable  of  any  high  endeavor ;  when  I  con- 
sider how  many  of  our  brightest  men  have  written  the 
word  Agnostic  on  their  banner,  as  if  not  to  know  any- 
thing, or  to  consider  anything  incapable  of  being  known, 
were  a  condition  to  shout  over  and  not  to  mourn  over, — 
when  I  see  all  these  things,  and  catch  the  spirit  of  the 
time  of  which  these  things  are  but  the  exhibitions  and 
the  symptoms,  I  cannot  help  feeling  as  if  out  of  this 
side,  at  least,  of  our  time  there  came  something  very 


The  Seriotisness  of  Life.  87 

like  the  echoes  of  the  old  Hebrew  cry,  "  Let  not  God 
speak  to  us,  lest  we  die. "  We  are  afraid  of  getting  to 
the  roots  of  things,  where  God  abides.  What  bulwarks 
have  you,  rich,  luxurious  men,  built  up  between  your- 
selves and  the  poverty  in  which  hosts  of  your  brethren 
are  living  ?  What  do  you  know,  what  do  you  want  to 
know,  of  the  real  life  of  Jesus,  who  was  so  poor,  so  radi- 
cal, so  full  of  the  sense  of  everything  just  as  it  is  in 
God  ?  You  tremble  at  the  changes  which  are  evidently 
coming.  You  ask  yourself,  How  many  of  these  first 
things,  these  fundamental  things,  are  going  to  be  dis- 
turbed ?  Are  property  and  rank  and  social  precedence 
and  the  relation  of  class  to  class  going  to  be  over- 
turned ?  Oh,  you  have  got  to  learn  that  these  are  not 
the  first  things,  these  are  not  the  fundamental  things ! 
Behind  these  things  stand  justice  and  mercy.  Behind 
everything  stands  God.  He  must  speak  to  you.  He 
will  speak  to  you.  Oh,  do  not  try  to  shut  out  His 
voice.  Listen  to  Him  that  you  may  live.  Be  ready  for 
any  overturnings,  even  of  the  things  which  have  seemed 
to  you  most  eternal,  if  by  them  He  can  come  to  be 
more  the  King  of  His  own  earth. 

And  in  religion,  may  I  not  beg  you  to  be  vastly  more 
radical  and  thorough  ?  Do  not  avoid,  but  seek,  the 
great,  deep,  simple  things  of  faith.  Religious  people 
read  thin,  superficial  books  of  religious  sentiment,  but 
do  not  meet  face  to  face  the  strong,  exacting,  masculine 
pages  of  their  Bibles.  They  live  in  the  surface  ques- 
tions about  how  the  Church  is  constituted,  how  it  ought 
to  be  governed,  what  the  forms  of  worship  ought  to  be. 
They  shrink  from  the  profound  and  awful  problems  of 


88  The  Seriousness  of  Life. 

the  soul's  salvation  by  the  Son  of  God  and  preparation 
for  eternity.  Do  "we  not  hear  —  strangest  of  all !  —  in 
religion,  which  means  the  soul's  relationship  to  God, 
do  we  not  hear  there  —  strangest  of  all  —  the  soul's 
frightened  cry,  "  Let  not  God  speak  with  me,  lest  I  die"  ? 
In  all  your  personal  life,  my  friends,  it  is  more  thor- 
oughness and  depth  that  you  need  in  order  to  get  the 
peace  which  if  you  spoke  the  truth  you  would  own  that 
you  so  wofully  lack.  You  are  in  God's  world;  you 
are  God's  child.  Those  things  you  cannot  change ;  the 
only  peace  and  rest  and  happiness  for  you  is  to  accept 
them  and  rejoice  in  them.  When  God  speaks  to  you 
you  must  not  make  believe  to  yourself  that  it  is  the 
wind  blowing  or  the  torrent  falling  from  the  hill.  You 
must  know  that  it  is  God.  You  must  gather  up  the 
whole  power  of  meeting  Him.  You  must  be  thankful 
that  life  is  great  and  not  little.  You  must  listen  as  if 
listening  were  your  life.  And  then,  then  only,  can 
come  peace.  All  other  sounds  will  be  caught  up  into 
the  prevailing  richness  of  that  voice  of  God.  The  lost 
proportions  will  be  perfectly  restored.  Discord  will 
cease ;  harmony  will  be  complete. 

I  beg  you  who  are  young  to  think  of  what  I  have  said 
to  you  to-day.  Set  the  thought  of  life  high  at  the  be= 
ginning.  Expect  God  to  speak  to  you.  Do  not  dream 
of  turning  your  back  on  the  richness  and  solemnity  of 
living.  Then  there  will  come  to  you  the  happiness 
which  came  to  Jesus.  You,  like  Him,  shall  live,  not 
by  bread  alone,  but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth  out 
of  the  mouth  of  God ! 


VI. 

THE  CHOICE   YOUNG  MAN. 

Saul,  a  choice  young  man.  —  1  Sam.  ix.  2. 

Saul  is  as  true  a  character  of  the  Old  Testament  as 
his  namesake,  who  is  by  and  by  called  Paul,  is  of  the 
New.  He  is  full  of  the  spirit  of  the  morning.  He  is 
eager  and  incomplete.  He  attracts  and  disappoints  us. 
He  is  a  mixture  of  loyalty  and  disobedience.  He  ex- 
cites great  hopes,  and  dies  in  tragical  failure.  He 
makes  ready  the  way  for  something  better  than  him- 
self.    He  is  the  true  Old  Testament  man. 

But  it  is  not  of  him  that  I  want  to  speak  to-day.  It 
is  simply  of  that  striking  phrase  in  which  he  is  de- 
scribed. "A  choice  young  man,"  so  he  is  called.  It 
is  the  general  description  of  a  being  in  whom  we  are 
all  interested,  who  is  supremely  interested  in  himself, 
and  yet  who  has  an  element  of  mystery,  and  excites  our 
curiosity  as  well  as  our  interest.  Let  us  ask  ourselves 
this  morning  what  are  the  characteristics  of  the  choice 
young  man. 

The  "  choice  "  of  anything  signifies  the  best  example 
of  that  thing.  The  word  involves  the  idea  not  of  ex- 
ceptionalness  but  of  representativeness.  The  choice 
fruit  of  the  tree  is  the  tree's  best  fruit;  it  is  that  in 
which  the  tree's  juices  have  had  their  most  unhindered 


90  The  Choice   Young  Man. 

way,  and  made  the  best  which  that  tree  was  capable  of 
making.  The  choice  work  of  art  is  the  freest  embodi- 
ment of  the  artistic  spirit,  the  thing  in  which  beautiful 
thought  and  beautiful  work  and  beautiful  material  have 
done  their  best.  The  choice  man  is  the  best  specimen  of 
humanity,  the  human  being  in  whom  there  is  least  that 
is  inhuman  or  unhuman,  and  in  whom  the  truly  human 
qualities  are  most  complete.  In  every  case  there  is  a 
ruling  out  of  what  is  exceptional,  and  a  fulfilling  of 
what  is  essential.     The  choice  thing  is  the  true  thing. 

So  is  it  with  the  choice  young  man.  He  is  the 
true  young  man.  He  is  the  human  creature  in  whom 
the  best  material  of  the  world,  which  is  manhood,  ex- 
ists in  its  best  condition,  which  is  youth;  or  if  I  am 
wrong  in  calling  youth  the  best  condition,  at  least  it 
is  a  condition  which  has  excellences  and  fascinations 
which  are  wholly  its  own.  The  great  point  of  the 
phrase  is  this,  —  that  it  denotes  not  an  exception  but  a 
true  condition  of  human  life.  The  choice  young  man 
is  the  man  in  whom  are  uttered  the  normal  character- 
istics of  young  manhood ;  and  so  he  invites  our  study, 
not  as  a  strange  phenomenon,  but  as  a  revelation  in  pe- 
culiarly perfect,  and  therefore  peculiarly  distinct,  dis- 
play of  a  nature  with  which  we  are  familiar,  and  which 
we  everywhere  desire  to  understand. 

The  charm  of  young  human  life  is  felt  everywhere, 
and  through  all  special  conditions  which  give  it  its 
variety  of  local  color.  It  belongs  to  no  nation  and  no 
age.  The  young  Roman,  the  young  Greek,  the  young 
Arab,  the  young  Englishman,  the  young  American,  as 
well  as  the  joung  Jew,  excite  at  once  the  imagination 


The  Clioicc  Young  Man.  91 

and  the  admiration  of  the  world.  Indeed  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  life  is  felt  the  unity  of  life ;  and  youth  is  one 
throughout  the  world  and  throughout  history  as  older 
life  never  is.  And  it  would  seem  to  be  man's  pure 
delight  in  his  humanity  which,  previous  to  all  analysis 
or  careful  enumeration  of  the  qualities  which  make  it 
beautiful,  compels  from  all  mankind  a  glory  and  de- 
light in  the  young  of  its  own  kind.  "Here  is  pure 
man, "  he  says ,  "  unmixed,  untainted.  It  is  crude  in- 
deed, it  is  unfinished;  but  that  is  man,  that  is  his 
glory.  The  finished  man  is  not  man.  lb  is  a  contra- 
diction of  terms."  And  so  before  we  ask  ourselves 
what  it  is  that  is  admirable  about  him,  we  admire  and 
are  inspired  by  the  young  man  as  we  admire  and  are 
inspired  by  the  morning  and  the  spring-time. 

When,  however,  we  go  on,  as  we  must,  to  ask,  beyond 
this  general  consciousness  of  admiration,  what  it  is 
which  we  admire  in  young  manhood,  our  answer  must 
be  found,  I  think,  in  the  way  in  which  the  true  human 
life  always  begins  with  its  circumference,  as  it  were, 
complete,  and  then  fills  in  its  space  with  its  details. 
It  starts  with  large  conceptions,  great  desires,  enthu- 
siastic notions  of  what  man  may  be,  and  it  is  the  fact 
of  these,  suggested  by  and  present  in  the  young  man's 
life,  which  makes  the  immediate  attraction  of  a  gen- 
erous young  manhood. 

It  might  have  been  just  the  opposite.  Life  might 
have  been  made  to  begin  with  some  one  point  and 
slowly  widen  out  from  that  point  until  its  complete- 
ness were  attained.  Prudently  adding  one  well-tried 
conception  to  another,   making  successive  unexpected 


92  The  Choice  Young  Man. 

discoveries  about  itself,  the  nature  might  have  only 
come  by  slow  degrees  to  realize  its  own  greatness  and 
mysterious  dignity.  As  it  is,  it  leaps  at  once  to  this 
completeness  of  itself ;  it  is  exuberant  at  the  beginning ; 
it  does  not  distrust  the  world  and  only  gradually  learn 
that  the  world  is  worthy  of  its  trust ;  it  trusts  the  world 
outright,  and  lets  all  stingy  questionings  come  afterward. 
Life  seems  so  good  that  it  is  satisfied  with  its  own  nor- 
mal exercises  and  emotions,  and  does  not  seek  additions 
in  artificial  stimulants.  It  bears  everlasting  witness 
that  the  good  is  deepest  and  most  original  in  human 
life,  by  believing  in  it  first,  and  only  slowly  recognizing 
the  presence  and  power  of  the  evil. 

Now  here  is  a  distinct  quality  in  human  youth,  be- 
longing to  a  distinct  truth  concerning  the  life  of  man. 
If  it  is  so,  then  we  have  reached  our  first  idea  about 
the  choice  young  man.  In  him  this  quality  of  human 
youth  will  be  most  bright  and  clear.  He  will  be  most 
possessed  with  the  sense  of  the  sufficiency  of  life,  and 
most  eager  to  preserve  its  purity  because  of  the  com- 
pleteness which  he  feels  in  it. 

This  is  the  true  motive  of  the  best  young  man's  de- 
sire for  purity.  It  is  not  fear.  The  wise  men  gather 
round  him  and  say,  "  You  must  not  sin.  You  must  not 
be  licentious;  you  will  suffer  if  you  do.  You  must  re- 
strain your  passions;  you  will  suffer  if  you  do  not." 
It  is  good  for  him  to  hear  their  voices ;  it  is  good  for 
him  in  his  weaker  moments  to  be  told  how  God  has 
emphasized  the  good  of  every  goodness  by  the  penalty 
which  he  has  attached  to  every  wickedness.  But  alas 
for  every  young  man  if  these  fears  are  the  safeguards 


Tlie  Choice  Young  Man.  93 


upon  which  his  soul  habitually  and  finally  relies  to 
keep  him  pure.  There  is  nothing  choice  about  a  vir- 
tue such  as  that.  Alas  for  you,  young  men,  if  there  is 
no  such  conception  in  you  of  the  essential  sacredness 
of  life  as  shall  make  every  natural  process  and  experi- 
ence beautiful,  and  just  in  proportion  shall  make  every 
unnatural  action  first  of  all  an  impossibility,  and  then, 
when  in  some  baser  moment  it  seems  possible,  make 
it  a  horror.  This  is  the  young  man's  true  purity,  — 
first,  a  divine  unconsciousness  and  incapacity;  and 
then,  when  that  is  no  longer  possible,  a  divine  hate  of 
impurity.  How  absolutely  such  a  truth  quarrels  with 
all  the  abominable  doctrines  which  would  make  us  be- 
lieve that  a  youth  must  wade  its  filthy  way  through  the 
depths  of  iniquity  up  to  the  heights  of  a  wasted  and 
withered  continence !  Not  so ;  life,  the  true  life,  the 
choice  life,  begins  upon  the  mountains.  As  the  morn- 
ing mists  scatter,  it  sees  the  gulfs  it  did  not  see  at 
first ;  but  it  has  no  natural  necessity  to  plunge  into  them 
when  they  are  seen.  And  the  true  power  of  its  conti- 
nence is  not  the  horror  of  the  gulf,  but  the  abundance 
and  glory  of  the  pure  hill-top  where  the  young  feet 
stand. 

All  this  does  not  apply  only  to  those  things  which 
are  absolutely  and  manifestly  vicious,  to  wanton  licen- 
tiousness and  reckless  sin;  it  applies  to  all  the  acci- 
dents of  life.  It  is  a  bad  sight  for  the  eyes  to  see  when 
a  young  man  has  come  prematurely  into  the  power  of 
those  accidents,  when  he  cannot  find  life  abundant 
without  what  we  call  the  "  comforts  of  life, "  even  those 
which  have  no  vicious  element  about  them.     What  busi- 


94  The  Choice  Young  Man. 


ness  has  the  young  vigor  of  twenty  to  demand  that  the 
fire  shall  be  warm  and  the  seat  cushioned  and  the  road 
smooth  ?  Let  him  not  parade  his  incompetence  for  life 
by  insisting  that  life  is  not  worth  living  unless  a  man 
is  rich,  —  unless,  that  is,  the  abundance  of  life  should 
be  eked  out  with  wealth,  which  is  an  accident  of  life, 
not  of  its  essence.  Let  him  not  insult  himself  by  be- 
having as  if  the  sunshine  or  the  shower  made  a  differ- 
ence to  him.  Let  those  poor  slaveries  wait  till  the  heart 
is  soured  and  the  knees  are  weak.  No !  the  young  man's 
place  is  to  scorn  delights.  We  will  tolerate  any  folly 
of  exuberant  vitality  which  vents  itself  in  over-scorn ; 
but  the  other  folly  is  unnatural  and  base.  Our  gilded 
youth  are  not  —  and  they  ought  to  know  that  they  are 
not;  they  ought  to  be  told  that  they  are  not  —  choice 
young  men  when  the  study  of  their  life  is  to  spare  them- 
selves pain  and  surround  themselves  with  creature  com- 
forts. It  is  a  sign  that  they  have  not  got  hold  of  the 
sufficiency  of  life.  They  do  not  know  what  pure  gold 
it  is,  and  so  they  try  to  eke  it  out  with  gilding.  Good 
is  it  when  their  better  human  nature  breaks  through 
sometimes,  and  in  the  rough  life  of  the  wilderness  or 
the  sea,  sought  by  whatever  artificial  means,  demands 
its  right  to  rejoice  in  the  simplicity  of  living,  in  the 
privations  which  mean  the  close,  uncushioned  contact 
with  life.  Sad  is  it  when  a  community  grows  more 
and  more  to  abound  in  young  men  who  worship  wealth 
and  think  they  cannot  live  without  luxury  and  physical 
comfort.     The  choicest  of  its  strength  is  gone. 

The  same  principle,  that  life  in  the  young  man  should 
be  abundant  in  itself,  would  find  still  broader  applica- 


The  Choice  Young  Man.  95 

tion  in  every  relation  of  human  action.  It  would  bring 
simplicity  and  healthiness  in  every  standard.  It  would 
rule  out  and  cast  aside  as  impertinent  and  offensive  all 
that  was  artificial  and  untrue.  How  clear  it  makes  the 
whole  question  of  the  way  in  which  money  is  to  be  gained 
or  given !  And  so  it  brings  us  at  once  to  another  practi- 
cal question  of  young  men's  life.  Money  to  the  simple, 
healthy  human  sense  is  but  the  representative  of  energy 
and  power.  It  is  to  pass  from  man  to  man  only  as  the 
symbol  of  some  exertion,  some  worthy  outputting  of 
strength  and  life.  Save  in  the  way  of  charity,  it  is  not 
to  be  given  or  taken  without  something  behind  it  which 
it  represents.  With  his  mind  full  of  this  simple,  hon- 
est truth,  feeling  himself  ready  to  earn  his  living  and 
to  give  an  equivalent  for  all  that  he  receives,  the  young 
man  ought  to  have  an  instinctive  dislike  and  scorn  for 
all  transactions  which  would  substitute  feeble  chance 
for  vigorous  desert,  and  make  him  either  the  giver  or 
receiver  of  that  which  has  not  even  the  show  of  an 
equivalent  or  earning.  I  do  not  say  that  gambling  and 
betting  are  admirable  or  respectable  things  in  gray- 
haired  men.  It  is  not  of  them  or  to  them  that  I  am 
speaking  now.  I  do  say  that  in  young  men,  with  the 
abundance  of  life  within  them  and  around  them,  gam- 
bling and  betting,  if  they  be  not  the  result  of  merest 
thoughtlessness,  are  signs  of  a  premature  demoraliza- 
tion which  hardly  any  other  vice  can  show.  In  social 
life,  in  club,  in  college,  on  the  street,  the  willingness 
of  young  men  to  give  or  to  receive  money  on  the  mere 
turn  of  chance  is  a  token  of  the  decay  of  manliness  and 
self-respect  which  is  more  alarming  than  almost  any- 


96  The  Choice  Yoking  Man. 

thing  besides.  It  has  an  inherent  baseness  about  it 
which  not  to  feel  shows  a  base  soul.  To  carry  in  your 
pocket  money  which  has  become  yours  by  no  use  of 
your  manly  powers,  which  has  ceased  to  be  another 
man's  by  no  willing  acceptance  on  his  part  of  its  equiv 
alent,  —  that  is  a  degrading  thing.  Will  it  not  burn 
the  purse  in  which  you  hold  it  ?  Will  it  not  blight 
the  luxury  for  which  you  spend  it  ?  Will  you  dare  to 
buy  the  gift  of  true  love  with  it  ?  Will  you  offer  it  in 
charity  ?  Will  you  pay  it  out  for  the  support  of  your 
innocent  children  ?  Will  it  not  be  a  Judas-treasure, 
which  you  must  not  put  into  the  treasury,  because  it  is 
the  price  of  blood  ? 

So  I  rank  high  among  the  signs  of  a  choice  human 
youth  the  clearness  of  sight  and  the  healthiness  of 
soul  which  make  a  man  refuse  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  the  transference  of  property  by  chance,  which 
make  him  hate  and  despise  betting  and  gambling  under 
their  most  approved  and  fashionable  and  accepted  forms. 
Plentiful  as  those  vices  are  among  us,  they  still  in  some 
degree  have  the  grace  to  recognize  their  own  disgrace- 
fulness  by  the  way  in  which  they  conceal  themselves. 
Some  sort  of  hiding  and  disguise  they  take  instinctively. 
Let  even  that  help  to  open  our  eyes  to  what  they  really 
are.  To  keep  clear  of  concealment,  to  keep  clear  of 
the  need  of  concealment,  to  do  nothing  which  he  might 
not  do  out  on  the  middle  of  Boston  Common  at  noon- 
day, —  I  cannot  say  how  more  and  more  that  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  glory  of  a  young  man's  life.  It  is  an  aw- 
ful hour  when  the  first  necessity  of  hiding  anything 
comes.    The  whole  life  is  different  thenceforth.     When 


21ie  Choice  Young  Man.  97 

there  are  questions  to  be  feared  and  eyes  to  be  avoided 
and  subjects  which  must  not  be  touched,  then  the  bloom 
of  life  is  gone.  Put  off  that  day  as  long  as  possible. 
Put  it  off  forever  if  you  can.  And  as  you  will  hold  nc 
truth  for  which  you  cannot  give  a  reason,  so  let  your- 
self be  possessed  of  no  dollar  whose  history  you  do  not 
dare  to  tell. 

It  is  no  drawback  from  the  truth  or  power  of  all  this 
that  it  involves  the  appeal  to  sentiment,  for  (and  this 
is  the  next  thing  I  want  to  say)  the  presence  and  the 
power  of  healthy  sentiment  is  another  token  of  the 
choice  young  humanity.  Sentiment  is  the  finest  es- 
sence of  the  human  life.  It  is,  like  all  the  finest  things, 
the  easiest  to  spoil.  It  bears  testimony  of  itself  that 
it  is  finer  than  judgment,  because  a  thousand  times 
when  judgment  is  all  clear  and  right,  sentiment  is 
tainted  and  all  wrong.  And  hosts  of  men,  feeling  the 
mysterious  dangers  which  beset  sentiment,  would  fain 
banish  it  altogether.  They  do  not  know  how  to  use  it, 
and  so  they  will  not  try.  It  is  explosive  and  danger- 
ous, and  so  it  shall  be  watched  and  made  contraband,  like 
dynamite.  How  many  men  do  you  know  who  can  frankly 
look  you  in  the  face  and  say  a  piece  of  sentiment,  and 
make  it  seem  perfectly  real  and  true,  and  not  make  either 
you  or  themselves,  or  both,  feel  silly  and  embarrassed 
by  their  saying  it  ?  Now  if  men  must  come  to  that,  the 
longer  it  can  be  before  they  come  to  it  the  better !  Let 
the  sentiments  have  their  true,  unquestioned  power  in 
the  young  man's  life.  Let  him  glow  with  admiration, 
let  him  burn  with  indignation,  let  him  believe  with  in- 
tensity, let  him  trust  unquestioningly,  let  him  sympa- 


98  The  Choice  Young  Man, 

thize  with  all  his  soul.  The  hard  young  man  is  the 
most  terrible  of  all.  To  have  a  skin  at  twenty  that 
does  not  tingle  with  indignation  at  the  sight  of  wrong 
and  quiver  with  pity  at  the  sight  of  pain  is  monstrous. 
Do  you  remember  in  "The  Light  of  Asia"  how  the 
young  Prince  Siddartha  caught  his  first  sight  of  human 
suffering  ? 

"  Then  cried  he,  while  his  lifted  countenance 
Glowed  with  the  burning  passion  of  a  love 
Unspeakable,  the  ardor  of  a  hope 
Boundless,  insatiate,  *  0  suffering  world, 
0  known  and  unknown  of  my  common  flesh, 
Caught  in  this  common  net  of  death  and  woe 
And  life,  which  binds  to  both  !  I  see,  I  feel 
The  vastness  of  the  agony  of  earth. 
The  vainness  of  its  joys,  the  mockery 
Of  all  its  best,  the  anguish  of  its  worst ! ' " 

Do  you  remember  the  simpler,  nobler  story  of  the 
young  Christ  ?  "  When  He  came  near  He  beheld  the 
city,  and  wept  over  it."  Tell  me  what  becomes  of 
the  hard  young  man,  proud  of  his  unsensitiveness,  even 
pretending  to  be  more  unsensitive  than  he  is,  incapable 
of  enthusiasm,  incapable  of  tears ;  what  becomes  of  him 
beside  the  knightliness  of  a  sorrow  such  as  that  ?  The 
little  child  is  sensitive  without  a  thought  of  effort.  The 
old  man  often  feels  the  joy  and  pain  of  men  as  if 
the  long  years  had  made  it  his  own.  But  in  between, 
the  young  man  is  hardened  by  self-absorption;  when 
d,ll  the  time  he  ought  —  with  his  imagination,  with  his 
power  to  realize  things  he  has  not  been  nor  seen  —  to 
go  responsive  through  the  world,  answering  quickly  to 
every  touch,  knowing  the  bi^'^'^cned  man's  burden  just 


The  Choice  Young  Man.  99 

because  of  the  unpressed  lightness  of  his  own  shoulders, 
feeling  the  sick  man's  pain  all  the  more  because  his 
own  flesh  never  knew  an  ache,  buoyant  through  all  with 
his  unconquerable  hope,  overcoming  the  world  with  his 
exuberant  faith,  and  farthest  from  sentimentality  by 
the  abundance  and  freedom  of  the  sentiment  which  fills 
him.  Be  sure  that  there  is  no  true  escape  from  soft- 
ness in  making  yourself  hard.  It  is  like  freezing  your 
arm  to  keep  it  from  decay.  Only  by  filling  it  with 
blood  and  giving  it  the  true  flexibility  of  health,  so  only 
is  it  to  be  preserved  from  the  corruption  which  you, 
fear.  Be  not  afraid  of  sentiment,  but  only  of  untruth. 
Trust  your  sentiments,  and  so  be  a  man. 

It  would  be  strange  indeed  if  our  first  truth  did  not 
apply  to  the  whole  methods  of  thought  as  well  as  to  the 
actions  and  the  feelings.  That  truth  was,  you  remem- 
ber, that  youth  began  with  the  large  circumference,  and 
then  filled  in  the  circle  gradually  with  the  details  of 
living.  It  does  not  start  with  the  small  detail  and  only 
gradually  build  out  to  the  large  idea.  Now,  what  will 
that  truth  mean  as  we  apply  it  to  the  intellectual  life  ? 
Will  it  not  mean  that,  the  choicer  a  young  mind  is,  the 
more  immediately  it  will  begin  with  the  perception  of 
great  truths,  which  then  its  thought  and  study  and  ex- 
perience will  fill  out  and  confirm  ?  It  is  the  place  and 
privilege  of  the  young  man  to  know  immediately  that 
God  is  good,  that  the  world  is  hopeful,  that  spirit  is  real. 
These  great  ideas  are  his  ideas.  He  does  not  prove  God's 
existence,  building  it  up  out  of  his  own  sight  of  the 
things  God  does.  He  sees  God.  He,  the  pure  in  heart, 
sees  God :  and  then  all  his  life  is  occupied  in  gathering 


100  The  Choice  Young  Man. 

into  the  substance  of  the  faith  which  he  has  won  by 
direct  vision,  the  vividness  and  definiteness  which  sepa- 
rate successive  experiences  of  God  have  to  give. 

Until  we  know  this  method  of  the  young  man's  knowl- 
edge we  shall  always  be  going  astray,  as  I  doubt  not  we 
are  going  astray  now.  We  shall  discredit  every  intuitive 
perception  of  the  fresh  nature,  and  demand  of  it  to  go 
without  faith  till,  we  may  almost  say,  the  time  has 
come  when  the  gaining  of  faith  is  possible  no  longer. 
We  shall  meet  the  spontaneous  utterance  of  a  belief  in 
the  spiritual  world  with  a  cold,  "  How  do  you  know  ?  " 
which,  failing  to  elicit  what  we  call  a  reasonable  an- 
swer, will  kill  the  newly  born  belief  and  bury  it  in  an 
early  grave  of  scepticism.  But  bid  the  young  man  be- 
lieve that  which  his  heart  tells  him  is  true,  enlarging 
the  testimony  of  his  own  heart  by  the  witness  of  the 
universal  human  heart  through  a  docile  deference  for 
authority;  and  then  adjure,  implore  him  to  be  pure 
and  righteous,  —  for  the  light  cannot  come  except 
through  purity  and  righteousness;  lust  and  iniquity 
are  surely  darkness  —  do  this,  and  then  you  may  be 
sure  of  —  what?  Not  that  your  young  man  will  not 
make  a  thousand  blunders,  not  that  he  will  not  some- 
times seem  to  lose  his  sight  of  truth,  but  that  the  method 
of  his  mental  life  is  right,  and  so  that  in  the  end  he 
must  stand  clear  under  a  cloudless  sky. 

The  world's  strength  has  been  built  up  thus,  by  young 
men  believing  and  uttering  the  truth  they  saw,  —  the 
greatest,  largest  truth,  —  and  then  their  experience  fill- 
ing that  truth  with  solidity,  until  it  became  a  foundation 
on  which  yet  greater  truth  might  rest. 


The  Choice  Young  Man.  101 

Begin  with  largeness  of  thought,  and  with  positive- 
ness  of  thought.  The  way  in  which  a  man  begins  to 
think  influences  all  his  thinking  to  the  end  of  his  life. 
Begin  by  seeking  for  what  is  true,  not  for  what  is  false, 
in  the  thought  and  belief  which  you  find  about  you. 
Be  as  critical  as  you  will,  search  as  severely  as  you 
want  to  into  the  belief  which  offers  itself  for  your  ac- 
ceptance, but  let  your  search  and  criticism  always  have 
for  its  purpose  that  you  may  find  what  you  may  believe, 
not  that  you  may  find  what  you  need  not  believe.  Some 
things  which  your  first  thinking  accepts,  your  riper 
thought  may  feel  compelled  to  lay  aside ;  but  the  habit 
of  believing  once  established  will  not  be  lost  out  of  your 
life,  and  the  young  man's  time  is  the  time  to  make  that 
habit.  Scepticism  is  not  merely  the  disbelief  of  some 
propositions.  If  it  were  that,  there  is  not  one  of  us  but 
would  be  a  sceptic.  It  is  the  habit  and  the  preference 
of  disbelieving.  God  save  us  all  from  that  scepticism ! 
God  save  especially  our  young  men  from  it,  for  a  scep- 
tical young  man  is  a  monstrosity. 

What  shall  we  say  about  this  whole  last  matter, 
the  matter  of  belief,  except  that  the  true  young  man's 
life,  the  choice  young  man's  life,  is  bound  to  be  a  life 
of  vision.  To  see  the  large  things  in  their  largeness, 
—  that  is  his  privilege ;  and  there  is  no  privilege  which 
is  not  a  duty  too.  It  is  God's  word  to  Abraham,  "  Look 
now  toward  heaven  and  tell  the  stars  if  thou  be  able  to 
number  them.  So  shall  thy  seed  be. "  "  And  Abraham 
believed  the  Lord  and  it  was  counted  unto  him  for 
righteousness."  Afterwards  came  the  long  journeys 
and   the  struggles  and  the  darknesses  and  the  disap- 


102  The  Choice  Young  Man. 

pointment  and  the  sins ;  at  the  last  came  the  quiet  rest 
in  the  cave  of  Machpelah  which  is  before  Mamre,  where 
they  buried  him ;  but  the  vision  of  the  stars  never  faded 
from  his  eyes. 

And  now  I  do  not  know  whether  there  has  come  at 
all  out  of  what  I  have  said  anything  like  a  clear  image 
of  the  choice  young  man.  As  I  said  when  I  began,  I 
should  care  little  to  try  to  create  that  image  if  it  were 
some  strange,  exceptional  creature  that  I  was  trying  to 
carve.  But  it  is  not  that;  it  is  the  true  young  human 
being,  the  type  and  flower  of  the  first  vigor  of  humanity. 
And  these  are  the  qualities  which  we  have  seen  in  him, 
—  purity  of  body,  mind,  and  soul ;  simple  integrity,  and 
a  dignity  which  will  not  have  what  is  not  his,  no  matter 
under  what  specious  form  of  game  or  wager  it  has  come 
into  his  hands ;  tenderness,  sympathy,  sentiment,  — • 
call  it  what  name  you  will,  a  soul  that  is  not  cynical  or 
cruel ;  and  positive,  broad  thought  and  conviction.  Do 
these  things,  as  I  name  them,  blend  with  one  another  ? 
Does  there  stand  out  as  their  result  a  figure  recogniz- 
able and  clear,  well-knit  and  strong,  brave,  generous, 
and  true,  but  very  little  conscious  of  itself,  claiming  the 
love  and  honor  of  the  human  heart  ? 

For  men  do  love  the  type  and  flower  of  their  own 
young  manhood.  Little  children  and  young  boys  look 
up  to  it  with  touching  reverence.  Old  men  look  back 
to  it  with  wistful  longing,  often  with  a  perplexed  won- 
der how  they  ever  passed  themselves  through  a  land 
which  they  see  now  to  be  so  rich  and  kept  so  little  of 
its  richness.  Men  love  and  honor  it;  and  their  love 
and  honor  for  the  choice  young  man  is  only  measured 


The  Choice  Young  3Ian.  103 

by  the  disappointment  and  anger  and  disgust  with  which 
they  look  at  the  young  libertine,  the  young  gambler,  the 
young  cynic,  the  young  sceptic,  the  young  fool. 

If  all  these  qualities  do  really  blend  into  a  recogniz- 
able character  and  being,  then  there  ought  to  be  some 
fact,  the  fine  resultant  of  them  all,  in  which  they  should 
all  take  expression,  and  which  should  represent  them 
before  the  world.  As  the  resultant  of  all  the  qualities 
of  a  star  is  its  brightness,  and  the  resultant  of  all  the 
qualities  of  a  flower  is  its  fragrance,  and  the  resultant 
of  all  the  qualities  of  an  action  is  its  glory,  —  so  the 
resultant  of  the  purity  and  integrity  and  tenderness  and 
thoughtfulness  of  a  young  human  life  ought  to  be  its 
joy.  I  cannot  count  that  a  separate  quality,  far  less 
a  separate  action ;  it  is  the  radiance,  it  is  the  aroma  of 
all  the  qualities.  The  depressions  of  youth  are  very 
real,  as  real  and  as  likely  to  appear  as  are  the  clouds 
which  gather  at  the  rising  of  the  sun.  But  the  sun  and 
not  the  cloud  is  the  characteristic  fact  of  the  morning ; 
and  joy,  not  sadness,  is  the  characteristic  fact  of  young 
humanity.  To  know  this,  to  keep  it  as  the  truth  to 
which  the  soul  constantly  returns,  —  that  is  the  young 
man's  salvation.  Whatever  young  depression  there  is, 
there  must  be  no  young  despair.  In  the  morning,  at 
least,   it  must  seem  a  fine  thing  to  live. 

Only  once  in  this  sermon  have  I  spoken  of  Jesus  as 
the  specimen  of  human  youth.  But  He  is  such  a  speci- 
men always.  And  I  appeal  to  all  of  you  who  have  sym- 
pathetically read  the  Gospels  to  say  whether  you  do 
not  feel  through  all  His  life  of  sorrow  the  subtle,  cer- 
tain presence  of  this  joy  of  which  I  speak.     It  breaks 


104  The  Choice  Young  Man. 

out  into  flame  upon  tlie  mountain  summits  of  His  life ; 
but,  where  there  is  no  flame,  it  nestles  into  warmth 
in  all  His  ordinary  intercourse  with  men,  and  it  glows 
with  a  fervor  of  consolation  which  is  unmistakable  be- 
neath the  darkest  blackness  of  His  suffering.  It  is  the 
ideal  joy  of  life,  burning  through  all  the  hardest  and 
cruellest  circumstances  of  life,  and  asserting,  in  spite  of 
everything,  the  true  condition  of  the  Son  of  God  and  the 
Son  of  Man. 

Let  this  conduct  me  naturally  to  the  last  word  I  want 
to  say  in  order  to  make  all  that  I  have  said  complete. 
I  have  spoken  of  the  young  man's  character  and  life, 
and  I  have  seemed  to  say  nothing  at  all  of  his  religion. 
Is  it  because  I  have  forgotten  his  religion  or  thought  it 
of  small  consequence  ?  God  forbid !  It  is  because  one 
of  the  most  effectual  and  convincing  ways  to  reach 
religion  is  to  make  life  seem  so  noble  and  exacting  that 
it  shall  itself  seem  to  demand  religion  with  the  great 
cry,  "  Who  is  sufficient  for  these  things  ?  "  When  not 
yet  driven  by  the  stress  of  sin  and  sorrow,  but  exalted 
by  the  revelation  of  what  life  might  be,  and  eager  with 
the  witness  of  the  truth  of  that  revelation  which  fills  his 
own  self-consciousness,  the  young  man  looks  abroad  for 
help  that  he  may  realize  it,  then  he  finds  Christ.  And 
he  finds  Christ  in  the  way  that  belongs  to  him  just  then 
and  there,  just  in  the  time  and  place  where  he  is  stand- 
ing. He  finds  Christ  the  model  and  the  master.  It  is 
the  personal  Christ  that  makes  the  young  man's  reli- 
gion. "Behold  this  being,  young  Himself  with  the 
eternal  youth,  knowing  this  life  which  I  am  just  begin- 
ning, with  the  true  share  in  it  which  made  His  Incar- 


The  CTwice  Young  Man.  105 

nation,  living  now  in  the  heavens  and  also  here  by  my 
side,  with  these  dimly  felt  purposes  of  life  which  are  in 
me  all  perfectly  clear  and  bright  and  glorious  in  Him, 
—  behold  this  Christ  standing  before  me,  pointing  to 
the  heights  of  the  completed  human  life,  and  saying 
not,  '  Go  there, '  but  saying,  '  Follow  me, '  —  going  be 
fore  us  into  the  land  our  souls  desire !  " 

When  religion  comes  to  mean  simply  following  Christ, 
when  the  young  man  gives  himself  to  Christ  as  his 
Leader  and  his  Lord,  when  he  prays  to  Christ  with  the 
entire  sense  that  he  is  laying  hold  of  the  perfect  strength 
for  the  perfect  work,  —  then  the  whole  circle  is  com- 
plete. Power  and  purpose,  purpose  and  power,  both  are 
there;  and  only  the  eternal  growth  is  needed  for  the 
infinite  result. 

It  is  always  sad  not  to  feel  the  choiceness  of  anything 
which  has  in  it  wonderful  and  fine  capacities,  —  to  be 
content  with  the  ordinariness  and  coarseness  of  that 
which  is  capable  of  being  exquisite  and  great.  Oh,  that 
there  could  thrill  through  the  being  of  our  young  men 
some  electrical  sense  that  they  are  God's  sons,  that  so 
they  might  make  themselves  the  servants  of  His  Christ, 
and  live  the  life  and  attain  the  nature  which  are  rightly 
theirs.  God  grant  it  for  the  young  men  who  are  here 
to-day ! 


VII. 

I 

BACKGROUNDS  AND  FOEEGEOUNDS. 

For  lo,  He  that  formeth  the  mountains,  and  createth  the  wind,  and 
declareth  unto  man  what  is  His  thought,  that  maketh  the  morning  dark- 
ness, and  treadeth  upon  the  high  places  of  the  earth,  —  the  Lord,  the  God 
of  Hosts,  is  His  name.  —  Amos  iv.  13. 

The  mountains  to  the  Hebrew  were  always  full  of 
mystery  and  awe.  They  stood  around  the  sunlit  level 
of  his  daily  life  robed  in  deep  clouds,  the  home  of  wan- 
dering winds,  flowing  down  with  waters,  trembling,  as 
it  seemed,  with  the  awful  footsteps  of  God. 

They  made  indeed  for  him  the  background  of  all  life, 
as  they  make  the  background  of  every  landscape  in 
which  they  stand.  Close  to  the  eye  that  watches  them 
there  are  the  shrubs  and  grass;  the  river  murmurs  at 
our  feet ;  the  common  works  of  life  go  on.  And  then 
beyond,  holding  it  all  in  their  strong  grasp,  setting 
their  solid  forms  against  the  sky,  sending  their  streams 
down  into  the  open  plain,  stand  the  great  hills,  which 
keep  the  sight  from  wandering  indefinitely  into  space 
and  throw  out  in  relief  all  the  details  of  the  broad 
scenery.  The  foreground  of  the  plain-land  rests  upon 
the  background  of  the  hills.  From  them  it  gains  its 
lights  and  shadows.  The  two  depend  on  one  another. 
Take  the  background  away  and  the  foreground  which 


Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds.  107 

is  left  is  tame  and  thin,  and  leads  to  nothing.  Take 
the  foreground  away,  and  the  background,  with  nothing 
to  lead  up  to  it,  is  misty  and  unreal.  The  man  who 
lives  and  works  in  the  foreground  does  not  think  all 
the  time  about  the  background ;  but  it  is  always  there, 
and  he  is  always  unconsciously  aware  of  it.  The  back- 
ground and  foreground  together  make  the  complete  land- 
scape in  the  midst  of  which  a  human  life  is  set. 

Now  all  this  is  true  not  merely  in  the  world  of  outer 
Nature,  but  also  in  the  world  of  inner  life.  There  is  a 
foreground  and  a  background  to  every  man's  career. 
There  are  the  things  that  press  themselves  immediately 
upon  our  attention,  — the  details  of  life,  the  works  our 
hands  are  doing,  the  daily  thoughts  our  minds  are 
thinking,  the  ground  and  grass  on  which  we  tread. 
Those  are  the  foreground  of  our  living.  And  then, 
beyond  them,  there  are  the  great  truths  which  we  be- 
lieve, the  broad  and  general  consecrations  of  our  life 
which  we  have  made,  the  large  objects  of  our  desire, 
the  great  hopes  and  impulses  which  keep  us  at  our 
work.  Those  are  the  mountain  backgrounds  of  our  life. 
When  we  lift  our  eyes  from  the  immediate  task  or 
pleasure,  our  eyes  rest  on  them.  They  are  our  reser- 
voirs of  power;  out  of  them  come  down  our  streams 
of  strength.  Once  more  the  background  and  the  fore- 
ground together  make  the  perfect  picture.  You  cannot 
leave  out  the  foreground  of  immediate  detail.  You 
cannot  leave  out  the  background  of  established  princi- 
ple and  truth.  Both  must  be  there,  and  then  the  picture 
is  complete. 

The  danger  of  our  life  is  not  ordinarily  lest  the  fore- 


108  BackgrouTids  and  Foregrounds. 

ground  be  forgotten  or  ignored.  Only  a  dreamer  here 
and  there,  wrapt  in  his  distant  vision,  forgets  the  press- 
ing duties  and  the  tempting  pleasures  which  offer  them- 
selves directly  to  our  eyes  and  hands.  They  crowd  too 
closely  on  us.  The  detail  of  life  at  once  commands  us 
and  attracts  us.  The  danger  with  most  of  us  is  not  lest 
it  should  be  neglected  or  forgotten.  It  is  the  back- 
grounds of  life  that  we  are  likely  to  forget.  The  moun- 
tains sink  out  of  our  sight.  The  highest  sources  of 
power  do  not  send  us  their  supply.  Shall  we  discard 
the  figure  for  a  moment  and  say  that  to  most  men  the 
actual  immediate  circumstances  of  life  are  so  pressing 
that  they  forget  the  everlasting  truths  and  forces  by 
which  those  circumstances  must  be  made  dignified  and 
strong  ?  Then  must  come  something  like  the  cry  of 
Amos  the  Prophet,  "  Lo,  He  that  f  ormeth  the  mountains, 
and  createth  the  wind,  and  declareth  unto  man  what  is 
His  Thought,  that  maketh  the  morning  darkness  and 
treadeth  upon  the  high  places  of  the  earth. "  Is  there 
not  in  these  words,  dimly  but  very  grandly  and  majesti- 
call}^  set  forth,  the  great  suggestion  of  the  divine  back- 
ground of  all  life  ?  It  is  the  same  which  Tennyson  has 
pictured  in  the  Vision  of  Sin:  — 

"  At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 
Cry  to  the  summit,  '  Is  there  any  hope  ?  * 
To  which  an  answer  pealed  from  that  high  land. 
But  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  understand  ; 
And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  withdrawn 
God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  Dawn." 

And  now,   if  I  have  made   my  meaning  plain,   you 
understand  what  I  intend  when  I  say  that  I  want  to 


Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds.  109 

make  my  subject  for  this  morning  The  Backgrounds  of 
Life.  We  are  troubled  —  whoever  looks  carefully  at 
his  fellow-men  is  troubled  —  by  the  superficialness  and 
immediateness  of  living.  There  is  a  need  of  distance 
and  of  depth.  And  the  distance  and  depth  are  there  if 
men  would  only  feel  them.  Let  us  try  to  see  what  and 
where  they  are. 

I  speak  especially  to  those  who  are  young,  whose  life 
is  just  beginning,  for  it  is  in  youth  that  the  landscape 
of  a  life  most  easily  constructs  itself  in  its  completeness. 
Then,  in  youth,  the  immediate  thoughts  and  occupa- 
tions are  intensely  vivid ;  and  at  the  same  time  the  great 
surrounding  truths  and  principles  have  a  reality  which 
they  often  lose  in  later  life.  Sometimes,  much  later, 
as  the  man  grows  old,  the  great  surrounding  truths  and 
principles  gather  once  more  into  sight.  The  old  man 
feels  again  the  distance,  which  the  middle  life  forgot. 
But  with  him  by  that  time  the  immediate  interest  has 
grown  dull.  The  present  occupations  are  not  pressing 
and  vivid.  The  beauty,  the  glory  of  young  life,  of  the 
best  and  healthiest  of  young  life,  is  that  while  it  is  in- 
tensely busy  with  the  present  it  is  also  aware  of  and  in- 
spired by  those  larger  truths,  those  everlasting  timeless 
verities  out  of  which  all  true  life  must  be  fed.  Youth 
has  the  power  of  realism  and  idealism  most  perfectly 
combined.  Its  landscape  is  most  harmoniously  com- 
plete ;  therefore  it  is  to  healthy  youth,  to  life  with  all 
its  promise  opening  before  it,  that  one  speaks  with  the 
surest  hope  of  being  understood  as  he  discourses  on  the 
backgrounds  of  life. 

I  shall  be  most  likely  to  make  myself  intelligible  if  I 


110  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds. 


speak  not  too  generally,  but  describe  to  you  several  of 
the  special  ways  in  which  the  greater  and  more  lasting 
stands  behind  the  less  and  temporary  and  holds  it  in 
its  grasp. 

Consider  first,  then,  how  behind  every  foreground  of 
action  lies  the  background  of  character  on  which  the 
action  rests  and  from  which  it  gets  its  life  and  mean- 
ing. It  matters  not  whether  it  be  an  age,  a  nation,  a 
church,  a  man ;  anything  which  is  capable  both  of  being 
and  of  acting  must  feel  its  being  behind  its  acting,  must 
make  its  acting  the  expression  of  its  being  or  its  exist- 
ence is  very  unsatisfactory  and  thin.  What  does  it 
mean  to  me  that  the  French  Revolution  burst  out  in 
fury  a  hundred  years  ago,  unless  in  that  outburst  I  see 
the  utterance  of  the  whole  character  of  that  crushed, 
wronged,  exasperated  time  which  had  gathered  into  it- 
self the  suppressed  fury  of  centuries  of  selfish  despot- 
ism ?  What  is  it  to  me  that  a  great  reformer  arises  and 
sets  some  old  wrong  right,  unless  I  see  that  his  coming 
and  the  work  he  does  are  not  mere  happy  accidents,  but 
the  expression  of  great  necessities  of  human  life  and  of 
a  condition  which  mankind  has  reached  by  slow  develop- 
ment and  education  ?  What  is  your  brave  act  without  a 
brave  nature  behind  it  ?  What  is  your  smile  unless  I 
know  that  you  are  kind  ?  What  is  your  indignant  blow 
unless  your  heart  is  on  fire  ?  What  is  all  your  activity 
without  you  ?  How  instantly  the  impression  of  a  char- 
acter creates  itself,  springs  into  shape  behind  a  deed. 
A  man  cannot  sell  you  goods  across  a  counter,  or  drive 
you  a  mile  in  his  carriage  on  the  road,  or  take  your 
ticket  in  the  cars,  or  hold  the  door  open  to  let  you  pass, 


Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds.  Ill 

without  your  getting,  if  you  are  sensitive,  some  idea  of 
what  sort  of  man  he  is,  and  seeing  his  deed  colored  with 
the  complexion  of  his  character. 

If  this  were  not  so,  life  would  grow  very  tame  and 
dull.  We  cannot  picture  to  ourselves  how  tame  and 
dull  it  would  become.  An  engine  has  no  background  of 
character.  Its  deeds  are  simple  deeds.  Unless  you  feel 
behind  it  the  nature  of  the  man  who  made  it,  its  actions 
are  complete  and  final  things  and  suggest  and  reveal 
nothing  beyond  themselves;  therefore  its  monotonous 
clank  and  beat  grows  wearisome.  Its  very  admirable 
orderliness  destroys  its  interest.  You  weary  of  it. 
Nobody  can  make  an  engine  the  hero  of  his  novel ;  for 
man,  being  character,  will  care  for  nothing  which  has 
not  character  behind  it,  finding  expression  through  its 
life. 

Here  is  the  value  of  reality,  of  sincerity.  Reality, 
sincerity,  is  nothing  but  the  true  relation  between  action 
and  character.  Expressed  artistically,  it  is  the  har- 
mony between  the  foreground  and  the  background  of  a 
life.  We  have  all  seen  pictures  where  the  background 
and  the  foreground  were  not  in  harmony  with  one  an- 
other ;  each  might  be  good  in  itself  but  the  two  did  not 
belong  together.  Nature  never  would  have  joined  them 
to  each  other,  and  so  they  did  not  hold  to  one  another 
but  seemed  to  spring  apart.  The  hills  did  not  embrace 
the  plain,  but  flung  it  away  from  them ;  the  plain  did 
not  rest  upon  the  hills,  but  recoiled  from  their  embrace. 
They  were  a  violence  to  one  another.  Who  does  not 
know  human  lives  of  which  precisely  the  same  thing  is 
true?     The  deeds  are  well  enough  and  the  character  is 


112  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds. 

well  enough,  but  they  do  not  belong  together.  The  one 
does  not  express  the  other.  The  man  is  by  nature 
quiet,  earnest,  serious,  sedate.  If  he  simply  expressed 
his  calm  and  faithful  life  in  calm  and  faithful  deeds, 
all  would  be  well ;  but,  behold !  he  tries  to  be  restless, 
radical,  impatient,  vehement,  and  how  his  meaningless 
commotion  tries  us.  The  man's  nature  is  prosaic  and 
direct,  but  he  makes  his  actions  complicated  and  ro- 
mantic. It  is  the  man's  nature  to  believe,  and  only 
listen  to  the  scepticism  which  he  chatters!  It  is  the 
discord  of  background  and  foreground,  of  character  and 
action. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  two  are  not  in  discord 
but  in  harmony,  every  one  feels  the  beauty  of  the  pic- 
ture which  they  make.  The  act  which  simply  utters 
the  thought  which  is  the  man,  what  satisfaction  it  gives 
you !  The  satisfaction  is  so  natural  and  instinctive  that 
men  are  ready  enough  to  think,  at  least,  that  they  pre- 
fer a  bad  man  who  without  reserve,  without  disguise, 
expresses  his  badness  in  bad  deeds,  to  another  bad  man 
who  with  a  futile  shame  tries  to  pretend  in  his  activi- 
ties that  he  is  good.  "Let  us  have  sincerity  at  least," 
they  say.  They  are  not  always  right.  The  good  deed 
which  the  bad  man  tries  to  do  may  be  a  poor  blind 
clutching  at  a  principle  which  he  does  not  understand 
but  dimly  feels,  —  the  principle  of  the  reaction  of  the 
deed  upon  the  character ;  that  principle  and  its  working 
we  must  not  lose  sight  of  in  our  study.  The  heart 
gives  life  to  the  arm.  The  arm  declares  the  life  of  the 
heart ;  but  the  heart  also  gets  life  from  the  arm.  Its 
vigorous  exertion  makes  the  central  furnace  of  the  body 


Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds.  113 

to  burn  more  brightly.  So  the  good  action  may  have 
some  sort  of  power  over  the  chariacter  of  which  at  first 
it  expresses  not  the  actual  condition  but  only  the 
shames,  the  standards,  and  the  hopes. 

What  will  be  the  rule  of  life  which  such  a  description 
of  life  as  this  must  necessarily  involve  ?  Will  it  not 
include  both  the  watchfulness  over  character  and  the 
watchfulness  over  action,  either  of  which  alone  is  wo- 
fully  imperfect  ?  We  are  familiar  enough  with  a  cer- 
tain lofty  talk  which  seems  to  make  small  account  of 
action.  "To  be  rather  than  to  do;  not  what  you  do  but 
what  you  are;  be  brave  and  true  and  generous,"  —  so 
some  idealists  seem  to  talk.  And  on  the  other  hand 
there  are  hard-headed  practical  people  who  have  no 
eyes  for  anything  but  action.  "  Do  your  duty  and  do 
not  worry  about  the  condition  of  your  soul ;  your  deed, 
not  you,  is  what  the  world  desires;  get  done  your 
stroke  of  work  and  die,  and  the  world  will  take  up  the 
issue  of  your  life  and  use  it  and  never  ask  what  sort  of 
man  it  was  from  whom  the  issue  came,  — to  do  and  not 
to  be,  that  you  must  make  your  motto. " 

Oh,  the  inveterate  partialness  of  man !  Oh,  his  per- 
sistent inability  to  take  in  the  two  sides  of  any  truth, 
the  two  hemispheres  of  any  globe !  "  This  ought  ye 
to  have  done  and  not  to  leave  the  other  undone  "  —  some- 
times it  seems  as  if  that  were  the  most  continually 
needed  word  of  Christ.  ■>  When  will  men  learn  that, 
above  all,  to  feed  the  fountain  of  character  and  yet 
never  to  neglect  the  guiding  of  the  streams  of  action 
which  flow  out  of  that  fountain,  —  that  that  in  its  com- 
pleteness is  the  law  of  life.     All  the  perplexing  ques- 


114  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds. 

tions  about  the  contemplative  and  active  life,  about 
faith  and  practice,  about  self-discipline  and  service  of 
our  fellow-men  have  their  key  and  solution  hidden  some- 
where within  this  truth  of  the  background  and  the 
foreground  —  the  background  of  character  and  the  fore- 
ground of  action  —  without  both  of  which  together  the 
picture  cannot  be  complete. 

Do  we  ask  ourselves  what  culture  there  is  by  which 
the  human  life  can  be  at  once  trained  into  character 
and  at  the  same  time  kept  true  in  active  duty  ?  I  reply 
that  there  is  only  one  culture  conceivable  by  which  it 
may  perfectly  be  done,  —  that  is  the  culture  of  personal 
loyalty,  the  culture  of  admiration  for  a  nature  and  obe- 
dience to  a  will  opening  together  into  a  resemblance 
to  Him  whom  we  ardently  desire  and  enthusiastically 
obey. 

I  recall  what  Jesus  said,  "You  must  be  born  again," 

—  that  is  His  inexorable  demand  for  the  background  of 
character.     "  If  ye  love  me,  keep  my  commandments, " 

—  that  is  His  absolute  insistence  on  the  foreground  of 
action.  And  the  power  of  both  of  them  —  the  power 
by  which  they  both  unite  into  one  life  —  lies  in  the 
personal  love  and  service  of  Himself. 

This  is  the  largest  and  richest  education  of  a  human 
nature,  —  not  an  instruction,  not  a  commandment,  but 
a  Friend.     It  is  not  God's  truth,  it  is  not  God's  law, 

—  it  is  God  that  is  the  salvation  of  the  world.  It  is 
not  Christianity,  it  is  not  the  Christian  religion,  it 
is  Christ  who  has  done  for  us,  who  is  doing  for  us 
every  day,  that  which  our  souls  require.  What  has 
He  done  for  you,  my  friend  ?    "f'irst,  He  has  made  you  a 


*l 


Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds.  115 

new  creature  in  Himself.  He  has  given  you  a  new 
character ;  and  then  He  has  guided  you  and  ruled  you, 
making  you  do  new,  good,  holy  actions  in  obedience  to 
Him.  Not  two  blessings,  not  two  salvations,  —  only 
one !  This  is  His  promise  to  the  soul  which  He  in- 
vites, "  Come,  give  yourself  to  me  and  you  shall  be  new 
and  do  new  things ;  you  shall  have  opened  within  you 
the  fulness  of  new  admirations,  new  judgments,  new 
standards,  new  thoughts,  —  everything  which  makes 
new  character;  and  there  shall  be  new  power  for  the 
daily  task,  new  clearness,  new  skill  in  the  things  which 
every  day  brings  to  be  done."  The  background  and 
the  foreground !  "  This  ought  ye  to  have  done  and  not 
to  leave  the  other  undone, "  —  the  full  harmonious^ 
picture  of  a  life ! 

Closely  related  to  the  background  of  character,  and 
yet  distinguishable  from  it,  is  what  I  may  call  the  back- 
ground of  the  greater  purpose.  It  is  like  travelling  on 
a  long  journey.  You  set  out  with  a  clear  intention  of 
going  to  some  distant  place  where  there  is  work  wait- 
ing for  you  to  do.  You  keep  that  intention  all  the 
way ;  it  governs  the  direction  of  your  travel ;  it  keeps 
yon  moving  on  and  will  not  let  yOu  wander,  and  will 
not  let  you  rest ;  it  gives  dignity  and  meaning  to  every 
mile.  But  under  and  within  that  intention  lie  the  num- 
berless details,  the  interesting  circumstances  of  your 
journey,  the  people  whom  you  meet,  the  landscape 
which  you  see,  the  conversations  which  you  hold,  the 
waking  and  the  sleeping,  the  idleness  and  occupation 
of  your  days.  Often  and  often  you  forget  the  greater 
purpose  of  your  travel  in  your  absorption  in  its  inci- 


116  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds. 

dents,  and  yet  that  greater  purpose  is  always  lying 
behind  the  incidents  and  holding  them  in  their  place. 
If  it  should  vanish,  they  would  become  instantly  insig- 
nificant and  frivolous.  That  is  exactly  the  way  in 
which  a  man's  purpose  in  life  lies  behind  and  gives 
dignity  and  meaning  to  everything  that  the  man  does 
or  says.  He  is  not  always  thinking  of  it.  The  ambi- 
tious lawyer  is  not  always  consciously  determining  to 
conquer  at  the  bar.  The  eager  scholar  is  not  every 
moment  consciously  hungering  for  knowledge.  The 
avaricious  merchant  is  not  always  consciously  strug- 
gling to  be  rich.  The  unselfish  philanthropist  does 
sometimes  cease  consciously  to  labor  for  his  fellow- 
man.  But  each  of  them  has  always  the  greater  purpose 
of  his  life  unabandoned,  unextinguished,  resting  behind 
the  lightest  and  most  unprofessional  action  that  he 
does,  and  making  it  different  because  it  is  he  —  this 
man  with  this  purpose  —  that  does  it.  No  wave  that 
plays  most  lightly  on  the  beach  which  does  not  feel  the 
great  solemn  ocean  with  the  mysterious  heaving  of  its 
tide  behind. 

The  greater  purpose  may  be  bad  or  good,  horrible  or 
splendid.  One  man's  greater  purpose  is  an  undying 
passion  for  revenge.  Another  man's  greater  purpose 
is  a  perpetual  desire  for  the  glory  of  God.  Which  ever 
it  is,  it  dominates  the  life.  No  word  that  the  man 
speaks  but  is  reverberated  from  that  background;  no 
act  he  does  that  is  not  shone  through  by  its  color.  It 
is  what  makes  two  lives  which  outwardly  are  just  the 
same,  essentially  and  manifestly  different.  It  is  the 
life.     Tlie  other,  the  outward  exhibition,  is  the  living. 


Backgrou7ids  and  Foregrounds.  H7 

In  the  larger  experience  of  men,  in  what  we  call  his- 
tory, the  same  truth  is  true;  the  same  landscape,  the 
same  combination  of  background  and  foreground,  builds 
itself.  Behind  the  immediate  activity  of  any  people 
rises  what  we  call  the  public  spirit,  by  which  we  mean 
the  general  thought  or  idea  or  purpose  of  living  which 
the  whole  people  has  conceived.  Behind  the  things 
which  a  time  is  doing  there  grows  up  the  Zeitgeist^  or 
spirit  of  the  time.  The  countless  actions  of  a  State,  its 
laws,  its  wars,  its  administrations  of  justice,  its  shap- 
ing of  its  institutions,  —  all  go  on  within  the  influence 
of  its  idea  of  its  own  destiny,  the  thought  of  why  it  ex- 
ists in  the  world  and  what  its  existence  means.  Poor 
is  the  life  that  is  not  in  sympathy  with  its  time  and 
with  its  nation.  It  fastens  itself  into  no  complete  pict- 
ure. It  is  a  spot  of  discord  which  the  harmony  of  the 
whole  is  always  trying  to  cast  out  and  throw  away. 

In  the  smaller  world,  it  is  a  man's  profession  which 
makes  the  most  palpable  background  of  his  life.  If 
the  choice  of  it  has  sprung,  as  it  ought  to  spring,  in- 
tuitively and  almost  unconsciously  out  of  the  slowly 
developed  dispositions  and  capacities  of  a  man's  nature, 
it  then  enfolds  itself  warmly  about  all  he  thinks  and 
does.  It  is  as  the  merchant,  the  lawyer,  the  artist 
that  he  does  everything.  Every  most  broadly  human 
act  — the  way  in  which  he  walks  the  streets,  the  way  in 
which  he  serves  his  family,  the  way  in  which  he  rea- 
sons about  abstract  truth  —  has  in  it  the  marks  and  to- 
kens of  the  chosen  occupation  of  his  life.  Thereby  they 
all  gather  consistency.  They  are  saved  from  being 
scattered    fragments.      The    life    does   not   drift,    but 


118  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds. 

moves  from  recognized  purpose  to  assured  result,  carry- 
ing each  drop  onward  in  its  current. 

If  this  were  the  only  truth  it  would  seem  to  make  life 
very  stiff  and  rigid;  it  would  hold  every  act  in  the 
slavery  of  the  pre-established  purpose.  But  here  again 
the  power  of  a  re-active  influence  comes  in.  The  fore- 
ground tells  upon  the  background,  as  well  as  the  back- 
ground on  the  foreground.  The  settled  purpose,  the 
profession,  the  dedication  of  the  life  is  not  a  fixed  and 
uniform  thing.  Nothing  is  fixed  and  uniform.  EvVy- 
thing  is  played  upon  and  beaten  through  and  through  by 
personal  nature.  No  two  buglers  blow  their  bugles,  no 
two  prisoners  rattle  their  hoarse  chains  alike.  There- 
fore the  great  purpose  is  ruled  by  the  man,  as  well  as 
the  man  by  the  great  purpose,  and  it  is  the  complicated 
result  of  the  mutual  ruling  that  makes  the  life.  It  is 
the  background  and  foreground  telling  on  each  other, 
that  make  the  picture. 

And  let  us  notice  this,  that  both  the  great  purpose  of 
a  life  and  its  immediate  activities  are  provided  with 
their  safeguards  that  they  may  not  be  lost.  The  great 
purpose  has  its  impressiveness  and  its  solemnity.  The 
immediate  activities  have  their  absorbing  present  in- 
terest. So  strong  is  this  last  that  the  great  purpose 
often  ceases  to  be  conscious ;  yet  let  us  not  think  that 
this  makes  it  cease  to  be  powerful.  I  forget  to  think 
about  the  thing  I  have  resolved  to  be ;  I  am  not  ponder- 
ing upon  the  dignity  of  the  law  or  the  sacredness  of  the 
ministry  the  livelong  day ;  I  am  busy,  I  am  delighted 
with  the  detail  of  life  which  my  career  involves,  but 
none  the  less  I  am  in  the  power  of  the  idea  with  which 


Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds.  119 

I  undertook  it,  I  am  sensible  in  an  instant  to  any  im- 
pulse which  turns  me  out  of  its  course,  and  I  am  ready 
to  claim  the  triumph  when  the  gates  of  success  open 
before  me  at  the  end. 

Once  more  we  ask  ourselves,  as  we  asked  before, 
What  kind  of  life  will  the  presence  of  this  background, 
the  background  of  great  purposes,  involve  ?  And  our 
answer  is,  once  more,  that  it  involves  a  double  life,  —  a 
life  of  practical  alertness  and  a  life  of  profound  conse- 
cration, a  life  intensely  conscious  of  the  present  tem- 
porary forms  of  duty  and  a  life  also  deeply  conscious 
of  the  unchangeable,  eternal,  ever-identical  substance 
of  duty.  Men  lose  the  first,  and  they  become  vague 
dreamers ;  men  lose  the  second,  and  they  become  clat- 
tering machines ;  men  keep  them  both,  and  they  are  sons 
of  God,  living  in  their  Father's  house,  filled  with  its 
unchanging  spirit,  and  yet  faithful  and  happy  in  its 
ever-changing  tasks. 

We  ask  ourselves,  How  shall  a  life  like  that  be  won  ? 
And  again  we  must  answer  as  we  answered  before,  By 
personal  allegiance.  No  other  power  is  large  enough 
and  flexible  enough  at  once  to  make  it.  Loving  obedi- 
ence, loving  obedience  is  the  only  atmosphere  in  which 
the  vision  of  the  general  purpose  and  the  faithfulness 
in  special  work  grow  in  their  true  proportion  and  re- 
lation to  each  other.  The  distant  hills  with  the  glory 
on  their  summits,  and  the  close  meadow  where  the  grass 
waits  for  the  scythe,  —  they  meet  completely  in  the 
broad  kingdom  of  a  loved  and  obeyed  Lord.  And  who 
is  Lord  but  Christ  ?  And  where  but  in  the  soul  of  him 
who  finds  in  Christ  the  worthy  revealer  of  the  life's  pur- 


120  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds. 

pose  and  the  sufficient  master  of  every  deed  shall  the 
great  ideals  of  life  and  the  petty  details  of  life  come  har- 
moniously together  ?  Obey  Him,  love  Him,  and  nothing 
is  too  great,  nothing  is  too  little;  for  love  knows  no 
struggle  of  great  or  little.  No  impulse  is  too  splendid 
for  the  simplest  task;  no  task  is  too  simple  for  the 
most  splendid  impulse. 

I  hasten  to  say  a  word  or  two  upon  another  of  the 
backgrounds  of  life,  which  every  earnest  heart  will  rec- 
ognize the  moment  it  is  pointed  out.  I  mean  the  back- 
ground of  prayer.  Every  true  prayer  has  its  background 
and  its  foreground.  The  foreground  of  prayer  is  the 
intense,  immediate  desire  for  a  certain  blessing  which 
seems  to  be  absolutely  necessary  for  the  soul  to  have ;  the 
background  of  prayer  is  the  quiet,  earnest  desire  that 
the  will  of  God,  whatever  it  may  be,  should  be  done. 
What  a  picture  is  the  perfect  prayer  of  Jesus  in  Gethsem- 
ane !  In  front,  burns  the  strong  desire  to  escape  death 
and  to  live ;  but,  behind,  there  stands,  calm  and  strong, 
the  craving  of  the  whole  life  for  the  doing  of  the  will  of 
God.  In  front,  the  man's  eagerness  for  life;  behind, 
"  He  that  f ormeth  the  mountains  and  createth  the  winds 
and  declareth  unto  man  His  thought,  that  maketh  the 
morning  darkness,  and  treadeth  upon  the  high  places  of 
the  earth."  In  front,  the  teeming  plain;  behind,  the 
solemn  hills.  I  can  see  the  picture  of  the  prayer  with  ab- 
solute clearness.  Leave  out  the  foreground  —  let  there 
be  no  expression  of  the  wish  of  Him  who  prays  —  and 
there  is  left  a  pure  submission  which  is  almost  fatalism. 
Leave  out  the  background  —  let  there  be  no  acceptance 
of  the  will  of  God  —  and  the  prayer  is  only  an  expression 


Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds.  121 

of  self-will,  a  petulant  claiming  of  the  uncorrected 
choice  of  Him  who  prays.  Only  when  the  two,  fore- 
ground and  background,  are  there  together, — the  special 
desire  resting  on  the  universal  submission,  the  univer- 
sal submission  opening  into  the  special  desire,  —  only 
then  is  the  picture  perfect  and  the  prayer  complete ! 

What  Christ's  prayer  was  all  prayers  may  be,  all  true 
prayers  must  be.  What  is  it  that  you  ask  for  when  you 
kneel  and  pray  ?  Directly,  no  doubt,  it  is  some  special 
mercy.  It  is  the  coming  in  of  your  ship ;  it  is  the  re- 
covery of  your  friend ;  it  is  the  opportunity  of  useful- 
ness which  you  desire  for  yourself.  But  do  you  want 
any  of  those  things  if  God  does  not  see  that  it  is  best 
that  you  should  have  them  ?  Would  they  not  fade  out 
of  your  desire  if  you  should  know  that  they  were  not 
His  will  ?  Do  you  not  wish  them  because  it  seems  to 
you  that  they  must  be  best,  and  therefore  must  be  His 
will  ?  Is  it  not,  then,  His  will  which  is  your  real,  your 
fundamental,  your  essential  prayer  ?  You  must  keep 
that  essential  prayer  very  clear  or  the  special  prayer 
becomes  wilful  and  trivial.  You  must  pray  with  the 
great  prayer  in  sight.  You  must  feel  the  mountains 
above  you  while  you  work  upon  your  little  garden. 
Little  by  little  your  special  wishes  and  the  eternal  will 
of  God  will  grow  into  harmony  with  one  another,  —  the 
background  will  draw  the  foreground  to  itself.  Fore- 
ground and  background  at  last  will  blend  in  perfect  har- 
mony. All  conflict  will  die  away  and  the  great  spiritual 
landscape  from  horizon  to  horizon  be  but  one.  That  is 
the  prayer  of  eternity  —  the  prayer  of  heaven  —  to  which 
we  may  come,  no  one  can  say  how  near,  on  earth. 


122  Backgrounds  and  Foregrounds. 

I  must  not  multiply  my  series  of  suggestions.  I  hope 
you  see  that  they  are  mere  suggestions  and  instances 
of  that  which  pervades  all  life.  All  life  has  this  con- 
struction of  the  foreground  and  the  background.  Every- 
where  there  must  be  the  background  on  which  the  fore- 
ground rests ;  everywhere  the  foreground  grows  thin  and 
false  if  the  background  is  destroyed  or  ignored.  The 
love  for  truth  behind  the  belief  in  the  special  creed, 
the  sense  of  duty  behind  the  conviction  that  this  par- 
ticular thing  must  be  done,  the  joy  in  life  behind  the 
enjoyment  of  this  single  pleasure,  all  human  history 
behind  the  present  age,  the  whole  man's  culture  behind 
the  training  of  one  particular  power,  the  good  of  all 
behind  the  good  of  each,  —  all  these  are  instances 
among  a  hundred  others  of  the  backgrounds  of  life,  and 
bear  witness  of  how  the  construction  of  life  is  every- 
where the  same. 

Wherever  the  background  is  lost,  the  foreground 
grows  false  and  thin.  "What  is  this  foolish  realism  in 
our  literature  but  the  loss  of  the  background  of  the 
ideal,  without  which  every  real  is  base  and  sordid  ?  In 
how  many  bright  books  there  is  no  God  treading  on  the 
high  places  of  the  earth ;  nay,  there  are  no  high  places 
of  the  earth  for  God  to  tread  upon.  What  is  the  prac- 
tical man's  contempt  for  theory  ?  What  is  the  modern 
man's  contempt  for  history  ?  What  is  the  ethical  man's 
contempt  for  religion  ?  All  of  them  are  the  denials  of 
the  background  of  life.  All  of  them  therefore  are  thin 
and  weak. 

Again  I  say  that  it  is  only  in  personal  love  and  loyalty 
that  life  completes  itself.     Only  when  man  loves  and 


Backgrounds  a7id  Foregrounds.  123 

enthusiastically  obeys  God,  does  the  background  of  the 
universal  and  the  eternal  rise  around  the  special  and 
temporary,  and  the  scenery  of  life  become  complete. 

Therefore  it  is  that  Christ,  who  brings  God  to  us 
and  brings  us  to  God,  is  the  great  background-builder. 
You  give  yourself  to  Him,  and  oh,  the  wondrous  widen 
ing,  the  wondrous  deepening  of  life !  Behind  the  pres- 
i^  ent  opens  eternity;  behind  the  thing  to  do  opens  the 
thing  to  be ;  behind  selfishness  opens  sacrifice ;  behind 
duty  opens  love;  behind  every  bondage  and  limitation 
opens  the  glorious  liberty  of  the  child  of  God.  So  may 
we  give  ourselves  to  Him,  and  life  become  complete  for 
all  of  us ! 


VIII. 

THE   SILENCE   OF  CHRIST. 

But  He  answered  her  not  a  word.  —  Matt.  xv.  23^ 

We  often  think  about  the  different  tones  which  may 
belong  to  the  same  words.  We  do  not  think  so  often 
about  the  different  way  in  which  silences  may  be  under- 
stood. A  man  speaks  to  me,  and  I  say  to  myself,  "  What 
does  he  mean  by  what  he  says  ?  "  Not  merely  "  What 
do  his  words  mean  ?  "  but  "  What  does  he  mean  ?  "  But 
a  man  stands  silent  in  my  presence,  and  there  too  I  must 
ask,  before  I  understand  it  perfectly,  "What  does  he 
mean  by  this  silence  ?  Why  docs  he  stand  there  and 
not  speak  ? "  For  silence  has  as  various  moods  as 
speech,  and  its  moods  are  far  more  subtle.  One  man 
sits  silent  in  my  room  while  I  am  at  my  work,  and  his 
speechless  presence  fills  the  room  with  sympathetic  in- 
fluence and  an  atmosphere  in  which  my  work  almost 
does  itself.  Another  man  the  next  day  sits  silent  in 
the  same  chair,  and  his  silence  weighs  like  lead  upon 
my  brain  and  hand,  and  work  is  hopeless.  And  so  with 
the  same  man  at  different  times.  I  walk  with  my 
friend  to-day,  and  he  does  not  say  a  word,  and  my 
soul  all  the  time  is  saying  to  itself,  "  Oh,  if  he  would 
only  break  out  and  upbraid  me ;  no  condemnation  could 
be  half  as  awful  as  this  dreadful  silence. "     I  walk  with 


The  Silence  of  Christ.  125 

the  same  friend  to-morrow,  and  am  almost  afraid  to  have 
him  speak  because  it  seems  as  if  no  sympathy  could  be 
so  entire,  no  inflow  of  his  richness  into  me  could  be  so 
perfect  as  this  in  which  our  lives  silently  are  almost 
mingling  into  one.  So  silence  is  as  various  as  speech. 
Silence  is  what  the  silent  man  is.*^  There  is  the  silence 
of  vacancy  and  dulness,  and  the  silence  of  the  thought 
for  which  the  thinker  cannot  find  sufficient  words. 
There  is  the  silence  of  crafty  concealment,  and  the  si- 
lence which  is  completer  revelation  than  any  speech 
could  be.  There  is  the  silence  of  utter  condemnation, 
and  the  silence  which  is  sweeter  than  any  spoken  praise. 
The  completest  joy  and  the  profoundest  sorrow,  both 
are  silent.  It  is  as  different  in  men  as  it  is  in  Nature. 
There  is  the  silence  of  sunrise,  all  tremulous  with  hope, 
and  the  silence  of  sunset,  wrapped  in  the  stillness  of  its 
memories.  There  is  the  stillness  of  the  snake  slipping 
unseen  through  the  grass,  the  silence  of  the  cattle  feed- 
ing on  the  hillside,  the  silence  of  the  war-horse  waiting 
for  the  signal  of  the  battle.  How  different  they  are 
from  one  another,  yet  all  alike  are  silent. 
-  I  turn  this  afternoon  to  the  record  of  one  of  the 
silences  of  Him  whose  silences  must  have  been  most 
significant  because  of  the  richness  of  His  nature  and 
the  deep  importance  of  all  His  relations  to  mankind. 
One  day  a  Canaanitish  woman  came  running  after 
Jesus  with  the  cry,  "O  Lord,  thou  Son  of  David,  my 
daughter  is  grievously  vexed  with  a  devil ! "  We  hear 
the  sharp  agony  pierce  the  keen,  trembling  air.  The 
poor  woman's  whole  soul  is  in  her  words.  She  cries  to 
Him  in  whom  alone  seems  any  chance  of  help;  then, 


126  The  Silence  of  Christ. 

almost  frightened  with  her  cry,  she  pauses.  The  thing 
is  done.  Her  heart  has  told  its  story.  The  face  of 
Christ  has  touched  and  stirred  her  misery  into  self- 
consciousness,  and  out  of  the  cloud  this  lightning  of 
her  cry  has  flashed.  The  thing  is  done,  and  she  waits 
tremblingly  for  the  result.  Can  we  not  almost  hear 
her  heart  beat  as  she  listens  ?  What  will  He  say  ?  And 
then  see  what  does  happen.  "  He  answered  her  not  a 
word. "  Bowed  down  before  Him  there,  waiting  to  hear 
whether  He  was  blaming  her  or  blessing  her,  think  of 
the  dismay  with  which  her  soul  must  have  been  filled 
as  slowly  the  moments  passed  by  and  she  became  aware 
that  He  was  doing  neither.  The  sense  of  His  silence 
standing  over  her,  how  bewildering,  how  terrible,  how 
worse  than  any  blame  it  must  have  been !  But,  behold ! 
I  think  that  I  can  see  her  slowly  lift  her  eyes.  She 
cannot  bear  this  suspense.  She  must  look  this  awful 
silence  in  the  face.  Her  eyes  find  out  the  face  of 
Christ,  and  then  she  feels  Him  behind,  within,  His 
silence.  She  knows  Him  not  clearly  but  certainly. 
He  is  there,  and  she  has  found  Him.  The  disciples 
come  and  upbraid  her,  but  she  does  not  stir.  She  will 
know  what  this  silence  means  before  she  goes.  She 
knows  that  it  means  something  gracious ;  and  so  she 
listens  and  listens  till  at  last  the  silence  is  broken  and 
she  hears  Him  say,  "  Oh,  woman,  great  is  thy  faith,  be 
it  unto  thee  even  as  thou  wilt. "  Then  she  goes  away 
satisfied,  and  finds  her  daughter  whole. 

This  story,  then,  suggests  a  study  which  must  very 
often  have  forced  itself  on  every  devout  and  earnest 
soul.     What  is  the  meaning  of  the  silences  of  God? 


The  Silence  of  Christ.  127 

How  shall  I  understand  it  wlien  I  pray  to  Him  and  He 
answers  me  not  a  word,  when  my  whole  life  cries  out  to 
Him  and  there  comes  no  reply?  Such  silences  there 
are  beyond  all  doubt, — times  when  the  sense  of  need  is 
overwhelming ;  when  the  soul,  bowed  down  with  its  bur- 
den, comes  staggering  up  to  the  door  and  finds  it  closed, 
and  no  knocking  of  the  desperate  and  bleeding  hands 
brings  any  answer.  The  connection  seems  to  be  broken. 
The  sympathy  seems  to  be  lost.  There,  in  the  great 
depth  and  distance  which  seemed  but  yesterday  to  be 
full  of  God  as  the  sky  is  full  of  sunhght,  now  there  is 
no  God  at  all, — nothing  but  emptiness  and  blackness. 
Oh,  it  is  terrible  !  Better  even  the  curse  of  God  —  so 
sometimes  the  soul  thinks  ;  better  anything  which  should 
show  that  He  was  there,  and  that  He  was  aware  of  me, 
than  this  blank  silence.  Oh,  that  He  would  say  some- 
thing ! 

But  then  the  question  always  keeps  coming  up.  May 
it  not  be  that  He  is  saying  something  which  I  cannot 
hear  ?  There  is  at  the  bottom  of  every  soul  such  a  true 
sense  of  its  own  incapacity  that  it  does  not  go  very  far 
into  the  question  of  why  God  does  not  speak,  before  it 
begins  to  wonder  whether  it  is  ready  and  quick  and 
spiritual  enough  to  hear  Him  if  He  did.  There  are  two 
kinds  or  grounds  of  silence.  There  is  the  silence  of 
the  empty,  speechless  ocean  or  prairie,  and  there  is  the 
silence  which  envelops  the  deaf  man  who  stands  in 
the  very  central  roar  of  London.  Which  is  this  silence 
of  God  ?  It  may  be  either  ;  nay,  it  may  be  both.  Both 
elements  may  be  in  it.  And  so  our  study  of  God's 
silences  divides  itself  into  two  parts :  First,  there  are 

\ 


128  The  Silence  of  Christ. 

the  silences  which  are  apparent,  and  then  there  are  the 
silences  which  are  real.  We  cannot  always  draw  the 
line  between  them,  and  say  of  any  special  silence  to 
which  class  it  belongs,  but  we  know  that  both  kinds 
exist ;  and  he  does  not  fully  understand  the  fact  that 
often  his  life  seems  to  have  lost  its  communication 
with  the  life  of  God  who  has  not  asked  the  meaning 
both  of  the  apparent  and  the  real  silences  which  refuse 
his  soul  an  answer. 

Let  us  speak,  then,  first  of  God's  apparent  silences, 
—  of  the  times  when  He  really  answers  us  but  does  not 
seem  to.  That  such  times  would  be,  I  think  that  I 
should  know  beforehand  if  I  thought  in  general  of  the 
greatness  of  God  and  the  littleness  of  man.  There  is 
nothing  in  that  contrast  that  should  make  the  great 
refuse  to  hear  the  little.  The  great  would  become 
little  if  that  were  the  effect.  Your  beast  looks  up  ap- 
pealingly  into  your  face.  The  vast  difference  between 
his  beasthood  and  your  manhood '  does  not  make  you 
disregard  his  mute  appeal, — you  would  be  almost  a 
brute  yourself  if  that  were  so,  —  but  it  does  make  him 
in  large  degree  unable  to  understand  how  his  appeal 
touches  you.  Perhaps  he  catches  some  glimpse  of  sym- 
pathy upon  your  face,  perhaps  he  is  aware  of  some  tone 
in  your  voice ;  but  all  your  thoughtfulness,  all  your  care 
and  plan  to  help  him,  of  that  he  knows  nothing. 

The  resemblance  docs  not  tell  the  story,  for  we  are 
far  more  to  God  than  the  beast  is  to  us.  We  are  of  the 
same  nature  as  God.  We  are  God's  children.  Take, 
then,  your  child.  He  asks  you  for  some  blessing.  It 
seems  to  him  an  easv  tliinar.  something  which  you  can 


The  Silence  of  Christ.  129 

almost  take  up  in  your  hand  and  give  him;  but  you 
know  that  it  is  something  far  more  complicated.  It  is 
something  which  you  must  scheme  and  plan  for,  some- 
thing which  can  only  be  given  from  life  to  life  and  not 
from  hand  to  hand.  When,  then,  your  brow  knits  with 
thought  as  to  how  you  may  give  the  gift,  may  it  not 
well  be  that  he  thinks  you  have  refused  him  ?  Is  it  not 
evident  that  he  must  have  your  mind,  and  see  with  your 
eyes,  before  he  can  know  what  is  the  giving  of  the  gift, 
and  so  can  know  that  it  is  given  ? 

So  that  we  might  be  sure  beforehand  that  there  would 
be  times  when  God  would  seem  to  refuse  what  He  was 
actually  at  the  very  moment  giving.  But  look  at  it  in 
another  way.  Think  of  the  unconscious  wants  in  us 
which  are  forever  laying  themselves  before  God :  needs 
w^hich  we  do  not  know  ourselves  enough  to  apprehend, 
far  less  to  understand ;  deficiencies  whose  worst  defect 
is  that  they  are  not  aware  of  their  own  falling  short ; 
poverties  which  count  themselves  riches;  sin  which 
calls  itself  goodness;  shame  which  imagines  itself 
glory,  —  all  of  these  go  with  a  pathetic  urgency  into 
God's  presence  and  plead  for  a  supply  which  is  all  the 
more  needed  because  the  needy  soul  itself  to  which  they 
belong  is  not  aware  of  want!  God  answers  all  these 
prayers.  He  gives  to  each  unconscious  need  all  the 
supply  which,  in  its  unconsciousness,  it  is  able  to  re- 
ceive ;  but  the  soul,  ignorant  of  the  need,  cannot  know 
the  answer  which  its  needs  are  getting.  It  does  not 
dream  what  God  is  doing  for  it.  Blessing  comes  into 
it,  and  it  is  wholly  unaware.  But  may  it  not  be  —  will 
it  not  almost  certainly  be  — that,  in  large  part  by  means 

a 


130  The  Silence  of  CJirist. 

of  the  unrecognized  but  real  supply,  the  sense  of  need 
will  be  awakened,  and  will  recognize  itself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  suppl}^  which  it  has  received  ?  So  it  is  that 
children  come  only  gradually  to  know  their  father's 
and  their  mother's  care.  They  are  cared  for  before 
ithey  are  aware  that  they  cannot  care  for  themselves. 
The  helplessness  by  and  by  reveals  itself.  Then  they 
cry  out ;  and  only  in  their  crying  out  do  they  attain  the 
knowledge  of  how  their  helplessness  has  been  already 
enfolded  in  protecting  love.  In  the  soul's  history  there 
is  the  same  period  of  wakening, — when,  conscious  of 
need  but  not  yet  conscious  of  supply,  the  spirit  cries 
out  for  a  God  who  long  before  it  knew  its  own  want  has 
been  supplying  that  want  with  Himself.  I  think  my 
prayer  unanswered  when  really  God  not  merely  is  an- 
swering it,  but  has  been  answering  it  for  years,  before 
ever  it  knew  enough  of  itself  to  be  prayed. 

One  other  thought  must  still  be  added:  God  is  the 
Lord  of  all  the  world ;  whatever  goes  on  in  the  world 
goes  on  under  His  care.  It  would  be  awful  if  that  fact 
made  God  careless  of  any,  the  least  or  feeblest  of  His 
children ;  awful  if  all  these  thronging  prayers,  pouring 
in  from  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  America,  and  the  islands 
of  the  sea,  had  it  in  their  power  to  hinder  or  silence 
the  feeblest  fluttering  petition  which  tried  to  find  its 
way  to  God  from  any  weakest  child  of  His  who  after 
long  hesitation  and  doubt  has  dared  to  pray.  It  is  not 
that.  But  is  it  not  easy  to  conceive  that  such  a  multi- 
tude of  need  may,  likely  enough,  have  influence  upon 
the  way  in  which  that  single  petitioner's  prayer  re- 
ceives   its    answer,    lyaon  .the   form    the    answer   shall 


The  Silence  of  Christ.  131 


assume  ?  If  I  prayed  all  alone,  —  my  prayer  the  only 
prayer  which  pierced  the  darkness  because  mine  was  the 
only  soul  which  stood  in  need,  —  then  I  can  possibly 
imagine  that  as  I  stood  and  looked  I  should  behold  the 
answer  come  like  a  white  dove  out  of  the  distance 
until  it  laid  itself  upon  my  soul  and  gave  it  peace. 
But  now  I  cannot  help  seeing  what  a  far  greater  rich- 
ness there  will  be  if  my  petition  blends  with  a  million 
others,  and  the  answer  comes  in  some  great  outpouring 
of  the  divine  light  and  love  which  addresses  itself  to  all 
the  world.  It  seems  to  me  almost  like  this :  You  write 
your  letter  to  your  friend,  and  straightway  there  comes 
back  his  reply.  Thin,  narrow,  limited,  a  transaction 
purely  between  you  and  him,  getting  part  of  its  value 
from  its  specialness  and  limitation,  is  your  correspond- 
ence. But  suppose  your  letter  is  one  of  a  thousand 
which  reaches  this  great  helpful  friend  of  you  all ;  and 
suppose  that  by  some  great  act  done  out  in  the  broad 
face  of  the  sun,  or  by  some  mighty  book  which  speaks 
like  a  trumpet  from  a  mountain-top,  he  answers  you  all 
together,  —  you  all  and  a  host  besides,  —  tell  me,  are 
not  you  answered,  you  whose  prayer  started  and  soared 
out  of  a  special  closet  on  a  certain  day?  Will  you  say 
almost  peevishly,  "  Nay,  but  I  wanted  my  own  answer 
all  to  myself  "  ?  Is  not  that  selfish  and  weak  ?  May 
not  the  very  richness  of  this  larger  answer  have  it  for 
one  of  its  purposes  to  rebuke  that  selfishness  and  let 
you  know  that  he  best  finds  God  and  is  God's  who  finds 
Him  and  becomes  His,  not  in  separation  from  his 
brethren  but  in  the  certainty  of  God's  love  to  all  and 
of  the  belonging  of  all  souls  to  God? 


132  The  Silence  of  Christ. 

I  must  not  follow  farther  these  suggestions  of  the 
seeming  silences  of  God.  I  never  think  of  them  with' 
out  thinking  how  great  is  the  delight  which  comes  when 
any  man  discovers  that  God  really  has  been  answering 
him  all  the  time  when  he  thought  that  his  prayers  were 
all  unheard.  That  must  be  one  of  the  most  exquisite 
joys  of  heaven.  Among  the  vials  which  in  the  Book 
of  Revelations  held  the  prayers  of  saints,  there  must  be 
some  which,  when  the  saints  who  prayed  them  find  them 
in  their  vision-time,  shine  with  a  brilliancy  supremely 
precious.  They  are  the  prayers  which  seemed  as  if  they 
were  not  answered,  but  which  really  did  bring  down  their 
blessing.  When  we  do  really  see  them  and  know  their 
history,  two  things  will  become  very  real  to  us  about  all 
prayer :  First,  that  not  the  gift  but  the  giver  is  the  real 
answer  to  prayer ;  not  to  get  God's  benefactions,  but  to 
get  God,  is  the  soul's  true  answer.  And  second,  that  the 
faith  which  comes  by  the  assurance  that  God  must  have 
answered  is  often  a  nobler  culture  of  the  soul  than  even 
the  delightful  thrill  of  the  heard  answer  as  it  enters 
into  our  ears,  or  the  warm  pressure  of  the  blessing  it- 
self, held  tight  in  our  tremulous  and  grateful  hand. 
May  both  of  these  assurances  come  to  all  of  us  when  we 
pray  to  God,  and  yet  it  seems  as  if  He  sent  us  no  reply. 
Often  those  days  of  bewilderment  and  disappointment 
are  the  birthdays  of  faith. 

But  now  that  we  may  reach  the  second  part  of  our 
topic,  shall  we  not  come  back  to  the  poor  woman  who 
stands  before  the  silent  Saviour  in  that  unknown  spot 
in  the  coasts  of  Tyre  and  Sidon?  It  was  no  apparent 
silence  which  she  had  to  confront.     The  blessed  lips 


TJie  Silence  of  Christ.  133 

were  really  closed;  the  blessed  hands  really  did  not 
move  with  any  gesture  of  bestowal.  "  He  answered  her 
not  a  word,"  —  that  is  the  story  which  His  servant 
tells. 

And  is  there  anything  like  that  in  the  experience  of 
Jesus  which  comes  to  souls  to-day  ?  Indeed  there  is ! 
Many  and  many  a  prayer  there  is  which  not  merely 
Christ  does  not  seem  to  answer, — which  Christ  does 
not  answer.  Let  us  think  of  such  prayers  a  while.  Let 
us  see  to  what  classes  they  belong,  and  what  ought  to 
be  the  teaching  of  their  lack  of  answer  to  our  souls. 

Some  prayers  Christ  does  not  answer,  we  may  say, 
because  they  ask  Him  to  do  our  work  for  us.  They  ask 
Him  to  do  what  we  ought  to  do  for  ourselves.  Tell 
me,  is  there  a  kinder  thing  that  you  can  do  for  your 
pupil  who  comes  up  to  you  with  his  slate,  asking  you 
to  work  out  for  him  his  problem,  than  to  bid  him  go 
back  to  his  seat  and  do  his  task  himself,  and  get  that 
discipline  and  learning  which  is  really  the  object  of  his 
having  his  task  set  to  him  at  all,  —  the  object  of  his 
being  in  the  school  ?  You  ask  Christ  to  show  you  with 
a  flash  of  lightning  what  your  sorrow  means.  You  ask 
him  to  decide  for  you  and  to  reveal  to  you  by  some  su- 
pernatural illumination  which  path  of  life  you  ought  to 
take,  which  friendship  you  shall  cultivate,  what  profes- 
sion you  can  most  successfully  pursue.  There  comes  no 
answer  to  those  prayers.  The  Christ  to  whom  you  pray 
answers  you  not  a  word.  And  why  ?  Those  are  your 
problems.  It  is  by  hard  work  of  yours,  by  watchful 
vigilance,  by  careful  weighing  of  consideration  against 
consideration,  that  you  must  settle  those   things   for 


134  The  Silence  of  Christ. 

yourself.  Still,  if  you  are  wise  and  devout,  you  will  not 
fail  to  say,  "  God  showed  me  it ! "  when  you  have  really 
found  out  the  answer  by  the  use  of  your  own  powers ; 
for  where  did  those  powers  get  their  enlightenment  ex- 
cept from  Him  ?  But  the  first  prompt,  definite  answer 
which  your  prayer  expected  never  comes.  It  is  with- 
held because  the  same  God  who  is  ready  to  do  His  work 
for  you  demands  that  you  should  do  your  own. 

Closely  united  with  this,  and  coming  also  very  near 
to  the  story  of  the  poor  woman,  there  is  the  truth  that 
Christ  does  not  answer  many  a  petition  because  the  pe- 
titioner is  not  able  to  appropriate  and  understand  the 
answer.  Very  often,  as  I  said  before,  the  sense  of 
need  becomes  developed  in  advance  of  the  ability  to 
take  in  the  supply.  You ,  see  a  group  of  people  enjoy- 
ing intensely  some  great  work  of  art.  You  cannot  see 
its  beauty ;  but  as  you  hear  them  talk  there  wakens  in 
you  some  dim  sense  that  it  is  beautiful,  and  that  for 
you  not  to  see  its  beauty  is  in  you  a  sad  defect  and  loss. 
You  speak  to  them  and  say,  "  Explain  to  me  this  beauty 
and  make  me  feel  it. "  They  look  into  your  face,  and 
answer  you  not  a  word.  They  see  that  it  is  hopeless. 
You  need  so  much  before  this  need  can  be  supplied. 
They  cannot  answer  this  prayer  till  many  another  has 
been  prayed  and  answered.  Is  not  the  same  thing  true 
of  Christ  ?  Some  youth  upon  the  street  in  Jerusalem 
meets  Him  as  He  walks  among  the  disciples  and,  see- 
ing the  intelligence  and  peace  and  joy  which  fills  their 
faces,  appeals  to  the  Master  and  says,  "  Lord  do  for  me 
what  thou  hast  done  for  them,"  and  then  expects  the 
fulness  of  the  blessing  instantly.     It  does  not  come. 


The  Silence  of  Christ.  135 


And  why  ?  He  is  not  ready.  It  cannot  come.  He 
must  be  John  or  Peter  before  the  Lord  can  do  John's  or 
Peter's  work  in  him.  And  so  the  Lord  looks  him  in 
the  face,   and  answers  him  not  a  word. 

One  other  cause  there  is  for  silence  when  we  pray,  and 
that  is  the  largeness  of  God's  kingdom.  I  have  spoken 
of  it  already,  but  here  it  comes  in  again.  Two  friends 
come  to  me  together,  one  of  them  wants  me  to  go  with 
him  for  a  pleasant  walk ;  the  other  wants  me  to  come 
and  rescue  his  child  from  some  most  imminent  and 
dreadful  danger.  I  do  not  hesitate  a  moment.  I  turn 
away  from  him  who  wants  me  to  walk  with  him  and 
hurry  off  to  save,  if  it  is  possible,  the  child's  imperilled 
life.  And  if  he  be  the  man  he  ought  to  be,  my  walk- 
ing friend  will  thank  me  for  denying  his  request, 
would  have  no  respect  for  me  if  out  of  foolish  fondness 
I  let  the  poor  child  die  in  order  that  I  might  get  with 
him  the  freshness  of  the  autumn  breeze  or  the  glory  of 
the  mountain  view.  He  will  recognize  my  greater  re- 
sponsibility. He  will  see  my  larger  kingdom.  Now 
God  is  not  limited  exactly  thus.  He  is  above  all  time, 
and  so  has  all  time  for  His  own.  He  has  time  enough 
for  all  His  children ;  but  there  may  be  other  kinds  of 
complications.  In  many  ways  it  may  be  impossible 
that  what  1  ask  should  be  done  without  the  sacrifice  of 
something  else  which  is  of  far  more  importance  con- 
cerning some  special  brother's  life,  or  concerning  the 
vast  world  at  large.  What  then  ?  Shall  I  not  rejoice 
in  my  unanswered  prayer  ?  Shall  I  not  be  thoroughly 
glad  that  my  petition  goes  to  One  who  will  leave  it  un- 
answered if  there  are  greater  things  which  the  answer^ 


136  The  Silence  of  Christ 

ing  of  it  would  hinder,  or  if  in  my  blindness  I  have 
asked  something  which  for  myself  would  be  not  good 
but  evil  ?  Who  is  there  that  would  dare  to  pray  at  all 
if  he  had  not  that  assurance  ?  Who  has  not  felt  some- 
times as  if  the  face  of  Christ  was  never  so  gracious  or 
won  from  us  such  perfect  trust  as  when  He  simply 
looked  on  us  in  silence  and  answered  not  a  word. 

Thus  we  detail  a  few  of  those  conditions  in  which  God 
does  not  answer  prayer.  They  are  but  specimens  and 
instances.  There  are  a  great  many  others.  And  now, 
as  I  stand  and  look  abroad  across  them  all,  they  all 
give  me  one  great  impression.  That  impression  is, 
that  none  of  them  are  necessarily  condemned  to  act  as 
discouragements  of  the  soul  which  prays  and  whose 
prayer  goes  unanswered.  I  think  that  that  is  very 
strange.  Go  back  to  our  poor  Canaanitish  woman  once 
again.  Look  at  her  I  See  what  she  does  when  Jesus 
gives  her  no  reply !  Does  she  turn  off  in  despair  ? 
Does  she  go  away  in  anger  ?  Does  she  say,  "  He  is 
not  for  me,"  and  leave  Him  to  His  Hebrew  follow- 
ers ?  Not  so !  In  the  sweet  melody  of  the  old 
verses  we  can  feel  her  pressing  more  closely  to  Him 
through  the  silence  which  He  has  drawn  about  Him  like 
a  veil.  "  Then  came  she  and  worshipped  Him,  saying, 
*  Lord  help  me. '  "  And  she  said,  "  Truth,  Lord,  yet  the 
dogs  eat  of  the  crumbs  which  fall  from  the  master's 
table. "  Behold  her  undiscouraged  faith !  Nay,  is  it  not 
much  more  than  that  ?  Not  merely  she  clings  to  Him 
in  spite  of  His  silence.  Do  we  not  feel  that  somehow 
it  is  His  very  silence  through  which  as  through  a  rich 
revealing  glass  she  looks   in  on  His  nature,  and  sees 


The  Silence  of  Christ.  137 

what  is  truly  He  ?  At  any  rate  all  the  story  lets  us  see 
clearly  how  the  result  is  that  she  is  led  on  to  Him. 
Behind  His  gifts,  which  were  what  she  first  came 
seeking,  she  is  led  in  to  Him. 

My  friends,  do  we  know  anything  of  that  experience  ? 
Do  we  know  anything  of  what  it  is  to  take  refuge  from 
Christ's  silence  in  Christ  Himself  ?  If  we  do  not,  there 
are  great  depths  of  our  religion  still  waiting  for  our 
souls  to  sound.  You  cry,  "  0  Lord,  solve  me  this  prob- 
lem ! "  and  the  solution  does  not  come.  "  What !  must 
I  walk  in  darkness  ?  "  your  poor  soul  cries  out  ;  and 
then  He  comes  and  takes  your  hand  and  says,  "He 
that  followeth  Me  shall  not  walk  in  darkness,  but  shall 
have  the  Light  of  Life."  In  place  of  the  answer  to 
your  prayer  comes  He  to  whom  you  prayed.  You  have 
not  got  the  solution  of  your  problem;  it  still  floats 
in  doubt.  You  have  not  got  the  sure  prophecy  of  the 
future;  it  is  hid  behind  the  wavering  and  trembling 
veil.  You  have  not  got  the  brother's  dear  presence 
for  whose  life  you  cried  and  wrestled;  he  is  walking 
beside  the  river  of  Life  in  the  new  Light  of  Heaven. 
You  have  not  got  what  you  prayed  for,  but  you  have  got 
God!  You  have  the  source,  the  fountain,  the  sun! 
You  have  taken  hold  of  the  essential  meaning  and  es- 
sence of  all  these  things  for  which  you  prayed,  in  tak- 
ing hold  of  Him  to  whom  you  prayed.  In  His  silence 
you  have  pressed  back  to  Him.  If  He  had  spoken,  you 
might  have  rested  in  His  words.  Now  you  have 
pressed  back  to  Him.  Not  in  the  word  He  speaks  but 
in  the  word  He  is,  you  have  found  your  reply. 

It  is  in  the  silences  of  Nature  that  we  are  often  sensi- 


138  ThG  Silence  of  Christ. 

ble  of  being  most  near  to  Nature's  heart.  Not  when 
the  thunder  is  roaring,  nor  when  the  winds  are  sighing, 
but  in  some  hour  of  the  morning  or  the  evening  when 
even  the  distant  song  of  a  bird  seems  an  intrusion, 
when  the  silence  of  Nature  grows  a  transparent  veil 
which  reveals  and  does  not  hide  her  loveliness,  —  then 
is  the  time  when  you  know  how  lovely  Nature  is !  It  is 
in  the  silence  of  a  great  city ;  not  in  the  noisy  clashing 
noontide  of  its  furious  business,  but  in  the  solemn 
midnight  when  the  hush  is  over  all  its  streets,  —  then 
it  is  that  the  heart  of  the  city  opens  to  you,  and  you  feel 
to  the  full  its  mystery  and  awe  and  delight.  And  is  it 
not  true  about  the  men  whom  you  have  known  best  that 
the  times  when  you  have  sat  or  walked  side  by  side 
with  them  in  silence,  have  often  been  the  times  when 
you  have  known  them  most  deeply  and  most  truly  ? 

Is  it  strange  that  the  same  thing  should  be  true  of 
Christ  ?  If  my  brethren,  who  are  my  equals,  have  each 
some  sacred  chamber  in  his  nature  which  only  silence 
and  not  speech  can  open  and  reveal,  shall  I  think  it 
strange  that  Christ,  in  the  completeness  of  His  life, 
should  many  a  time  meet  my  especial  petition  with 
silence  because  so,  and  so  only,  can  He  let  me  see  Him- 
self, which  is  the  purpose  of  all  His  treatment  of  me. 
We  glorify  talk  overmuch.  We  meet  a  man  and  ask 
him  countless  questions.  "  Where  was  he  born  ?  Who 
were  his  father  and  mother  ?  Where  was  he  educated? 
What  docs  he  believe  ?  "  And  so  we  try  to  know  him. 
He  answers  us  the  best  he  can.  He  means  to  keep 
back  nothing.  But  when  his  answers  are  all  in,  and  I 
have  registered  them  in  my  book,  and  analyzed  them, 


The  Silence  of  Christ.  139 

and  arranged  them,  do  I  know  the  man  ?  And  then  in 
some  crisis  or  emergency,  or  on  some  sunny  day  which 
is  like  hundreds  of  others  in  his  life,  I  just  sit  in  his 
presence,  and  he  says  nothing  to  me,  and  the  result  is 
that  I  get  up  and  go  away  at  evening  full  of  the  knowl- 
edge of  what  manner  of  man  he  is. 

"Jesus  stooped  down  and  with  His  finger  wrote  on 
the  ground  as  though  He  heard  them  not. "  So  Christ 
revealed  Himself  to  the  furious  Jews  who  were  howling 
for  the  life  of  the  poor  woman  whom  they  had  caught 
in  her  sin.  When  Pilate  said  to  him,  "  Hearest  Thou 
not  how  many  things  they  witness  against  Thee  ? 
Jesus  answered  him  to  never  a  word;  insomuch  that 
the  governor  marvelled  greatly."  So  the  Prisoner  re- 
vealed Himself  to  His  amazed  and  frightened  judge. 
By  silence  often  of  necessity  and  not  by  speech  He  must 
make  Himself  known,  because  the  revelation  is  too  great 
for  words  to  contain ;  because  the  hearer  cannot  hold  the 
truth  and  yet,  by  his  strange  human  capacity,  can  hold 
Him  who  speaks  the  truth.  Him  who  is  the  truth ;  be- 
cause words  sometimes  hide  instead  of  revealing  what 
they  try  to  tell,  —  for  all  these  reasons  the  Lord  often 
when  we  pray  to  Him  answers  us  not  a  word. 

Oh,  my  friends,  our  answered  prayers  are  precious  to 
us ;  I  sometimes  think  our  unanswered  prayers  are  more 
precious  still.  Those  give  us  God's  blessings;  these, 
if  we  will,  may  lead  us  to  God.  Do  not  let  any  mo- 
ment of  your  life  fail  of  God's  light.  Be  sure  that 
whether  He  speaks  or  is  silent.  He  is  always  loving 
you,  and  always  trying  to  make  your  life  more  rich  and 
good  and  happy.    Only  be  sure  that  you  are  always  ready ! 


IX. 

HOW  TO  ABOUND. 

I  know  how  to  abound.  —  Phil.  iv.  12. 

Saint  Paul  is  rejoicing  in  a  double  knowledge.  "  I 
know  both  how  to  be  abased  and  how  to  abound,"  he 
says.  The  experience  of  want  and  the  experience  of 
abundance,  both  of  them  he  understands,  and  he  is 
ready  to  meet  either  of  them.  It  is  of  the  second  of 
his  two  kinds  of  knowledge  that  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
to-day;  but  the  two  are  not  distinctly  separable  from 
one  another.  No  man  can  have  one  kind  of  knowledge 
and  be  wholly  destitute  of  the  other.  Just  as  no  man 
knows  how  to  rule  who  is  not  able  also  to  obey ;  and  no 
man  knows  how  to  obey  without  being  also  ready  to 
command,  —  so  the  man  who  is  truly  wise  in  poverty 
would  be  wise  also  in  wealth;  and  he  who  is  most 
truly  fit  for  wealth  would  not  fail  if  poverty  should 
come  upon  him.  Thus  each  condition  becomes  in  some 
sort  a  test  of  the  other.  There  is  one  great  philosophy 
which  covers  both.  Let  us  try  to  remember  this  as  we 
think  this  morning  about  knowing  how  to  be  rich.  "  I 
know  how  to  abound, "  says  Paul. 

It  often  seems  as  if  men  had  more  than  enough  in- 
struction as  to  how  they  ought  to  meet  adversity,  but  far 
too  little  as  to  how  to  meet  prosperity.     As  if  that  were 


How  to  Abound.  141 


so  easy !  As  if  success  could  take  care  of  itself !  Nor 
does  the  prosperous  and  affluent  man  know  his  own 
need !  A  hundred  poor  men  come  and  say,  "  Show  me 
what  all  this  means.  Tell  me  how  shall  I  live  in  pov- 
erty and  not  grow  wretched,  sour,  cruel,  hopeless." 
Hardly  one  comes  to  God  or  fellowman,  and  with  his 
hands  overrunning  with  good  things  cries,  "  0  help  me 
to  escape  my  dangers !  Show  me  how  to  abound ! "  Our 
Litany,  indeed,  does  make  men  think.  "  In  all  time  of 
our  tribulation,  in  all  time  of  our  prosperity,  good 
Lord  deliver  us, "  it  bids  us  pray.  As  those  words  fall 
upon  his  ear,  the  rich,  abmidant  man  must  sometimes 
look  up  almost  in  surprise,  and  see  the  dangers  of  his  lot 
in  life  staring  at  him  through  the  silken  curtains ;  but 
at  most  times  the  curtains  hang  ample  and  smooth  and 
quiet,  and  no  fear  disturbs  them.  "  Hard  enough  to  get 
rich, "  men  will  say,  "  but  very  easy  to  be  rich.  Tell 
me  how  to  win  prosperity,  and  I  will  not  ask  anybody  to 
tell  me  how  to  use  it. " 

And  perhaps  it  is  just  because  affluence  does  not 
seem  to  bristle  with  dangers  as  poverty  does,  that  it 
seems  often  to  many  people  to  be  an  inferior,  almost  an 
unjustifiable  condition  for  a  noble  man.  It  seems  to 
afford  no  chance  of  moral  heroism.  It  looks  sleek  and 
self-satisfied.  The  sweet  moral  uses  of  adversity  mo- 
nopolize our  thought.  To  throw  away  wealth  and  pro- 
fusion, to  turn  ascetic,  to  disparage  learning,  to  isolate 
one's  life  from  the  pleasant  association  of  family  and 
friends, — we  all  know  how  this  has  seemed  to  many  men, 
to  many  noble  men,  to  many  groups  and  generations  of 
men  not  destitute  of  lofty  aspirations,  to  be  the  first 


142  How  to  Abound. 


condition  of  high  spiritual  character,  — the  making  of 
life  bare  and  meagre.  It  is  a  strange  confusion.  The 
idea  seems  to  be  that  a  man  ought  to  throw  away  wealth 
and  luxury  because  they  make  life  too  easy.  Really  it 
is  throwing  away  wealth  and  luxury  because  they  make 
life  hard,  because  in  them  the  chance  of  deep  and  spirit- 
ual life  is  beset  by  many  mysterious  and  subtle  dangers, 
over  the  conquest  of  which  alone  can  man  go  forward  to 
his  best.  Surely  there  is  a  braver,  a  franker,  and  a 
nobler  way.  Surely  the  man  who  takes  his  wealth  or 
privilege  and  keeps  it  and  learns  how  to  live  in  it  and 
use  it  and  conquer  its  dangers  by  continual  watchful- 
ness and  care,  —  surely  he  has  done  work  more  worthy 
of  respect  than  any  monk  or  ascetic  in  the  cell  or  cave 
to  which  his  coward  life  has  fled. 

You  will  not  think  of  me  that  I  stand  here  as  a  Chris- 
tian minister  before  a  congregation  in  which  there  are 
many  people  who  are  rich,  simply  trying  to  feed  their 
self-complacency,  to  congratulate  them  upon  their  lot. 
I  am  not  so  mean  as  that.  If  there  are  men  and  women 
here  whose  lives  are  full  of  privilege,  it  is  not  my  place 
to  bid  them  throw  their  privilege  away;  it  is  not  my 
place  to  tell  them  that  their  privilege  is  wrong;  but 
my  duty  surely  is  to  remind  them  of  the  dangers  and 
responsibilities  which  privilege  involves,  and  to  exhort 
them  as  earnestly  as  I  can  to  think  and  pray  and  study 
that  they  may  "  know  how  to  abound. " 

The  phrase  is  very  simple.  Behind  the  duty  of  being 
anything,  lies  the  deeper  duty  of  knowing  how  to  be  that 
thing  in  the  best  way  and  to  the  best  result.  I  meet 
a  man  who  says,  "My  fellow-citizens  have  chosen  me 


How  to  Abound.  143 


to  such  and  such  an  oflSce."  His  face  is  all  aglow  with 
triumph.  He  has  won  the  victory.  He  has  carried  the 
election.  How  quickly  the  question  starts  up  in  my 
mind  —  "  Does  this  man  know  how  to  govern  ?  He  is 
going  to  sail  the  ship  of  State.  Does  he  know  anything 
about  such  navigation?  Woe  to  the  State  if  he  does 
not ! "  "  "Woe  to  thee,  O  Land,  when  thy  king  is  a  child," 
says  the  wise  preacher.  Another  man  is  proud  that  he 
is  a  father;  but  he  has  evidently  not  got  hold  of  the 
first  ideas  of  fatherhood,  of  its  sacredness  and  serious- 
ness and  far  outreach.  There  are  officers  in  every  great 
army  who  have  the  commission  but  have  not  the  knowl- 
edge, and  they  are  the  officers  whose  men  are  sacrificed 
in  reckless  ventures.  The  priest  is  made  by  ordination, 
but  the  knowledge  how  to  be  a  priest  comes  only  by 
prayer  and  study  and  the  grace  of  God.  No  man  has 
a  right  to  be  anything  unless  he  is  conscious  that  he 
knows  how  to  be  it.  Not  with  a  perfect  knowledge,  for 
that  can  come  only  by  the  active  exercise  of  being  the 
thing  itself,  but  at  least  no  man  has  a  right  to  be  any- 
thing unless  he  carries  already  in  his  heart  such  a  sense 
of  the  magnitude  and  the  capacity  of  his  occupation  as 
makes  him   teachable  by  experience  for  all   that  his 

'i  occupation  has  to  make  known  to  him. 

'j  How  the  strict  application  of  our  rule  would  depopu- 
late our  industries  and  professions  !  How  it  would  bid 
the  king  come  down  off  of  his  throne,  and  the  judge  off 
of  his  bench !  How  many  fathers  and  mothers  it  would 
depose  from  their  sacred  seat  at  the  head  of  the  family ! 
How  it  would  beckon  many  a  priest  out  of  his  pulpit, 
many  an  author  from  his  desk,  many  a  teacher  from  his 


144  How  to  Abound. 


school-room,  many  a  merchant  from  his  counting-housej 
many  a  mechanic  from  his  bench !  Every  man  who  is 
satisfied  with  being  anything,  and  is  not  trying  to  know 
how  to  be  that  thing  as  well  as  it  is  possible  to  be  it, 
this  law  would  summon  to  resign  and  leave  his  place 
for  larger,  more  earnest,  more  conscientious  men !  This 
is  the  law  which  Paul  suggests  with  regard  to  abund> 
ance.  Wealth  is  a  condition,  a  vocation,  he  declares. 
A  man  may  have  the  condition  and  not  have,  not  even 
seek  to  have,  the  knowledge  of  how  to  live  in  that  con- 
dition. Go  to,  ye  rich  men,  and  learn  how  a  rich  man 
ought  to  live. 

I  talk  of  wealth  as  if  it  were  synonymous  with  Paul's 
word  "  abundance ; "  but  no  doubt  the  word  as  he  uses  it 
means  much  more  than  what  we  generally  understand 
by  wealth.  He  is  thinking  of  any  plentiful  supply  of 
life,  of  anything  which  makes  life  sumptuous  and  ample. 
Plenty  of  learning,  so  that  the  mind  is  nowhere  starved ; 
plenty  of  friends,  so  that  the  affections  are  all  satisfied ; 
plenty  of  peace  and  spiritual  comfort  and  certain  faith 
and  enthusiastic  inspirations,  —  all  of  these  may  be  in- 
cluded in  his  great  word,  "to  abound."  Not  only  to 
the  man  of  money,  but  to  the  man  of  scholarship,  to  the 
popular  man,  to  the  man  of  great  spiritual  hopes  and 
enjoyments,  —  to  all  of  them  his  words  suggest  that 
there  is  something  more  needed  than  to  have  these 
great  possessions,  even  to  know  how  to  have  them,  to  be 
worthy  of  them,  to  be  able  to  get  the  real  heart  and 
substance  of  their  value  out  of  having  them. 

He  did  not  certainly  have  all  these  things  himself, 
but  one  of  the  subtlest   and  profoundest  suggestions 


How  to  Abound.  145 


which  his  words  contain  is  this,  that  as  a  man  may- 
have  the  things  and  yet  lack  the  knowledge  how  to  use 
them,  so  on  the  other  hand,  a  man  may  lack  the  things 
and  yet  possess  the  knowledge  of  them,  — the  knowl- 
edge of  their  nature  and  their  use.  Paul,  a  poor  man, 
nevertheless  says,  "  I  have  the  best  part  of  money  still, 
—  the  knowledge  of  what  money  is,  and  what  a  true  man 
ought  to  do  with  money. "  Some  secret  he  possessed  by 
which  he  unlocked  the  heart  of  wealth,  even  although 
his  lot  in  life  was  almost  abject  poverty.  That  is  a 
very  lofty  mastery  indeed. 

And  now  is  it  possible  for  us  to  put  our  finger  upon 
this  mysterious  knowledge  of  Saint  Paul,  and  say  exactly 
what  it  was  ?  I  think  we  can.  It  must  have  been  a 
Christian  knowledge.  He  is  speaking,  as  he  always 
speaks,  distinctly  as  a  Christian.  Remember  he  be- 
came a  Christian  not  later  probably  than  thirty-five 
years  after  the  birth  of  Christ.  He  wrote  this  epistle 
to  the  Phillippians  as  late  as  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  the 
Christian  Era.  It  was  then  after  thirty  years  of  Chris- 
tian life  that  he  professed  this  knowledge.  Thirty 
years  had  passed  since  he  first  saw  his  Master,  Jesus,  on 
the  road  to  Damascus.  Thirty  years  of  consecration, 
thirty  years  of  ever-deepening  communion  with  his 
Lord,  thirty  years  of  the  profoundest  consciousness  of 
his  own  soul.  If  we  sum  up  those  thirty  years  in  one 
great  phrase  what  shall  we  say  of  them  but  this,  —  that 
Paul  had  learned  in  them  the  true  perfection  of  a  human 
soul  in  serving  Christ.  All  knowledge  for  him  had  be- 
come summed  up  in  that,  —  the  true  perfection  of  a 
human  soul  in  serving  Christ! 

10  . 


146  How  to  Abound. 


And  now  imagine  that  to  his  meagre  life  there  had 
been  brought  the  sudden  prospect  of  abundance.  "  To- 
morrow, Paul,  a  new  world  is  to  be  opened  to  you. 
You  shall  be  rich;  you  shall  have  hosts  of  friends; 
your  struggles  shall  be  over;  you  shall  live  in  peace. 
Are  you  ready  for  this  new  life  ?  Can  your  feet  walk 
strong  and  sure  and  steady  in  this  new  land  so  differ- 
ent from  any  land  where  they  have  ever  walked  be- 
fore ?  "  What  will  Paul's  answer  be?  "Yes,  I  have 
Christ,  I  know  my  soul  in  Him.  I  am  His  servant. 
Nothing  can  make  me  leave  Him.  With  the  power  of 
that  consecration  I  can  rob  abundance  of  its  dangers 
and  make  it  the  servant  of  Him  and  of  my  soul.  I 
shall  not  be  its  slave ;  it  shall  be  mine.  I  will  walk  at 
liberty  because  I  keep  His  commandments. "  So  in  the 
words  which  David  had  spoken  long  ago  might  Paul 
reply.  The  power  by  which  he  could  confidently  ex- 
pect to  rob  abundance  of  its  dangers  and  to  call  out  all 
its  help  was  the  knowledge  of  the  true  perfection  of  a 
human  soul  in  serving  Christ. 

Let  us  turn  quickly  from  Saint  Paul  to  ourselves. 
Let  us  take  one  by  one  the  different  kinds  of  abundance 
of  which  we  spoke,  and  see  how  it  is  true  that  over  each 
of  them  a  man  would  win  the  mastery  who  carried  into 
it  the  secret  of  Saint  Paul,  —  the  knowledge  of  the  true 
perfection  of  a  human  soul  in  serving  Christ ;  how  such 
knowledge  would  certainly  be  the  power  he  would  need. 

Take  then,  first,  the  simplest  of  all  the  meanings 
of  abundance,  which  is  wealth,  —  the  ownership  of 
riches.  Do  all  rich  men  know  how  to  be  rich  ?  He 
does  not  know  how  to  do  anything  who  does  that  thing 


How  to  Abound.  147 


so  that  he  brings  it  to  its  worst  and  not  its  best  results. 
Is  that  not  true  ?  A  man  does  not  know  how  to  sail  a 
ship  who  steers  it  so  that  when  it  ought  to  go  to  Liver- 
pool he  brings  it  into  Madagascar.  Where  is  the  ship 
of  wealth  then  meant  to  sail  ?  Her  port  is  clear  and 
certain,  —  to  generosity  and  sympathy  and  fineness  of 
nature  and  healthy  use  of  powers.  What  shall  we  say 
then  of  the  man  whose  money  makes  him  selfish  and 
cruel  and  coarse  and  idle,  or  any  one  of  these  bad 
things.  There  are  many  hard  names  which  we  may 
call  him  by,  but  the  real  philosophy  of  the  whole  mat- 
ter, the  comprehensive  definition  of  it  all  is  this,  — he 
does  not  know  how  to  be  rich !  He  is  a  blunderer  in  a 
great  art.  Look  at  his  opposite.  Look  at  the  man  who 
takes  money  into  the  easy  mastery  of  his  character. 
His  selfliood,  which  is  his  character,  appropriates  it. 
He  makes  it  part  of  him.  The  richer  that  he  grows 
the  more  generous  and  sympathetic  and  fine  and  active 
he  becomes.  What  can  you  say  of  him  but  that  he 
does  know  how  to  be  rich.  I  say  of  a  man  that  he 
knows  how  to  travel  when  he  makes  each  new  country, 
as  he  enters  it,  open  its  secrets  and  render  up  to  him 
new  interest  and  knowledge.  I  say  of  a  man  that  he 
does  not  know  how  to  swim  when  the  water  takes  pos- 
session of  him  and  drowns  him  in  itself.  So  I  say  that 
a  man  does  not  know  how  to  be  rich  when  his  money 
makes  him  its  slave,  and  turns  him  into  a  coarseness 
like  itself  instead  of  being  elevated  and  refined  by  the 
commanding  spirituality  of  his  human  soul. 

There  is  certainly  a  very  terrible  aspect  to  a  sight  like 
this,  —  an  aspect  of  it  that  makes  one  very  angry,  that 


148  How  to  Abound. 


sometimes  stirs  up  a  whole  class  or  city-full  of  poor 
men  who  seem  to  themselves  to  be  wronged  by  the  rich 
man's  ignorant  and  stupid  use  of  wealth,  to  rage  and 
violence.  There  is  certainly  another  way  of  looking  at 
it  in  which  it  is  most  pathetic.  For  what  can  be  more 
pitiable  than  the  condition  of  a  blunderer  who  holds  in 
his  hands  the  power  of  such  happiness  and  good  and 
usefulness  as  money  gives,  and  knows  not  what  to  do 
with  it  ?  The  failure  may  take  various  forms.  It  may 
deck  itself  with  gaudy  tinsel,  and  shine  in  the  extrava- 
gance of  gold  and  diamonds ;  or  it  may  clothe  itself  in 
the  false  sackcloth  of  miserliness.  It  may  affect  frivol- 
ity, or  affect  severity.  The  failure  is  the  same  in  either 
case.  In  either  case  an  infinitely  pathetic  object  is  the 
rich  man  who  has  not  known  how  to  be  rich. 

And  now  what  is  the  lacking  knowledge  ?  Certainly 
not  something  which  any  schools  to  which  the  man 
might  have  gone  could  possibly  have  taught.  We  not 
merely  cannot  find,  we  cannot  picture  to  our  imagina- 
tion, any  college  which  among  its  other  courses  should 
have  one  course  which  should  teach  men  how  to  be 
rich,  how  to  live  worthily  in  wealth.  Only  the  col- 
lege of  life  could  teach  that  fine  and  difficult  and  lofty 
art ;  and  in  the  college  of  life  more  than  in  any  other 
university  everything  depends  upon  the  spirit  and 
teachableness  of  the  student  himself.  But  in  that  col- 
lege there  is  one  lesson  which  every  right-spirited  and 
docile  student  ought  to  learn.  It  is  the  mystery  of  liv- 
ing, and  the  supremacy  of  some  great  power  on  which 
life  depends,  and  the  need  of  obedience  to  God.  That 
lesson  is  the  purpose  for  which  the  college  of  life  exists. 


Holo  to  Abound.  149 


Its  professors  are  the  solemn  events  which  come  to 
every  man.  Its  text-books  are  the  histories  of  men, 
whose  leaves  and  chapters  are  the  passing  years.  Its 
halls  are  the  several  businesses  and  relationships  in 
which  men  are  engaged.  In  that  great  college,  sacred 
with  the  accumulations  of  generations  of  learning  men, 
the  great  central  lesson  must  be  learned  that  humanity 
is  not  its  own,  but  God's ;  and  that  to  glorify  God  and 
to  enjoy  Him  forever  is  the  chief  end  of  man.  We  may 
not  say  that  sympathy  with  fellow-man  and  the  desire 
to  help  him  is  the  world's  lesson.  That  is  one  of  its 
subordinate  sciences,  one  of  its  necessary  departments, 
but  only  one.  "  The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the  beginning 
of  wisdom ;  a  good  understanding  have  all  they  that  do 
His  commandments. "  That  is  the  testimony  of  one  of 
the  profoundest  students  of  this  university  of  life,  one 
of  its  most  finished  graduates,  —  David,  the  King  of 
Israel,  in  his  hundredth  and  eleventh  Psalm.  His  son, 
King  Solomon,  a  student  of  a  diiferent  temper,  but  also 
no  slight  or  superficial  scholar,  bore  the  same  testi- 
mony in  the  same  words  in  the  first  chapter  of  his  Book 
of  Proverbs.  And  what  shall  we  say  who  stand  by  and 
look  at  rich  men  and  their  failures  ?  What  will  some 
of  you  who  are  rich  men  say,  over  whom  as  you  are 
growing  older  there  is  creeping  a  most  depressing  sense 
that  you  have  been  all  your  life  playing  with  your 
riches  as  a  child  plays  with  diamonds  ?  Are  you  not 
ready  to  say  that  if  you  could  have  carried  from  the  first 
a  deep  strong  sense  of  God,  it  would  have  been  a  point 
around  which  all  your  great  melancholy,  aimless,  use- 
less fortune,  all  your  inherited  wealth  which  has  simply 


150  How  to  Abound. 


kept  you  all  these  years  from  doing  anything  in  this 
busy  world,  would  have  crystallized  into  the  most  vigor- 
ous shapes  of  character  and  usefulness.  If  your  whole 
soul  had  been  full  of  that  knowledge  all  these  years, 
how  you  would  have  been  the  master  of  your  money, 
and  lifted  your  little  corner  of  the  world  with  it  as  a 
lever,  instead  of  its  being  your  master  as  it  has  been, 
and  either  crushing  you  down  with  the  anxious  care  of 
it,  or  wearing  you  out  with  the  aimless  spending  of  it ; 
and  it  is  hard  to  tell  which  of  those  two  is  worst. 

When  Jesus  said  to  the  rich  young  man  "  Go  and  sell 
all  that  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  poor, "  he  had  simply 
found  a  man  who  did  not  know  how  to  be  rich.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  with  that  man  but  to  send  him  back 
to  the  preparatory  school  of  poverty.  To  make  that 
special  treatment  of  a  single  man  the  universal  rule  of 
human  life  would  be  to  shut  up  one  of  the  great  higher 
schools  of  human  character  in  sheer  despair.  Some- 
times perhaps  a  rich  man  feels  that  if  he  could  get  rid 
of  his  money  he  could  be  a  strong  and  unselfish  man. 
It  is  the  old  delusion.  The  sinner  in  the  tropics  thinks 
he  could  be  a  saint  at  the  North  Pole.  It  is  only  that 
he  knows  how  the  sun  burns,  but  has  never  felt  how  the 
frost  freezes.  There  is  a  special  strength  and  a  partic- 
ular unselfishness  which  the  rich  man's  wealth  makes 
possible  for  him.  It  is  his  duty  to  seek  after  them,  and 
never  rest  till  he  has  found  them ;  not  to  make  himself 
poor,  but  to  know  how  to  be  rich  is  the  problem  of  his 
life. 

These  thoughts  rise  up  in  us  with  every  outcry  of 
poor  men  at  the  anomaly,  —  almost,  some  of  the  poor 


How  to  Abound.  151 


would  call  it,  the  atrocity,  —  of  some  men  being  rich 
while  other  men  are  very  poor.  Such  outcry  there  will 
always  be ;  but  at  its  heart  that  which  makes  such  an 
outcry  pathetic,  and  that  alone  which  makes  it  danger- 
ous, is  that,  often  blindly  and  not  able  to  understand 
or  to  define  itself,  it  is  an  outcry  not  against  rich  men, 
but  against  rich  men  who  do  not  know  how  to  be  rich. 
Always  there  will  be  angry  protests  against  any  man 
holding  in  any  way,  even  the  highest  and  most  un- 
selfish, wealth  which  the  man  who  protests  has  failed  to 
reach ;  but  it  is  not  this,  —  it  is  not  wealth  simply  in 
itself, — it  is  the  pride  of  wealth,  the  indifference  of 
wealth,  the  cruelty  of  wealth,  the  vulgarity  of  wealth, 
in  one  great  word  the  selfishness  of  wealth,  which  really 
makes  the  poor  man's  heart  ache,  and  the  poor  man's 
blood  boil,  and  constitutes  the  danger  of  a  community 
where  poor  men  and  rich  men  live  side  by  side.  Let 
riches  know  "  how  to  abound  "  and  poverty  will  not  lose 
its  self-respect,  and  so  will  not  struggle  after  the  self- 
respect  which  it  feels  that  it  is  losing,  with  frantic  and 
tumultuous  struggles.  Oh,  that  every  rich  man  and 
woman  here  might  know  this  truth,  and  use  it  when 
their  lives  touch  the  sad  and  sore  and  hopeless  lives  of 
poor  men  at  their  side. 

I  must  pass  rapidly  on  and  say  what  little  there  is 
time  to  say  upon  the  other  three  divisions  of  my  subject. 
I  said  that  there  were  other  kinds  of  abundance  besides 
wealth.  Think,  if  you  will,  for  a  few  moments,  about 
the  abundance  of  knowledge.  How  clearly  we  discover 
as  we  watch  the  lives  of  learned  men  that  there  is  some- 
thing else  needed  besides  the  knowledge  of  truths ;  there 


152  How  to  Abound. 


is  the  knowledge  of  how  to  know  truths,  without  which 
a  very  large  part  of  learning  is  a  waste  and  failure. 
Do  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  Here  is  a  scholar  who  has 
accumulated  all  the  facts  which  it  is  possible  for  him 
to  know  about  his  special  science.  He  knows  them 
all.  You  cannot  ask  him  for  one  of  them  that  he  does 
not  instantly  hold  it  out  to  you  in  his  ready  hand. 
Why  is  it  that  you  do  not  feel  any  enrichment  of  mind, 
any  enlargement  of  nature  or  character  with  all  his 
wonderful  acquirements  ?  Why  is  it  that  as  he  has 
grown  more  and  more  of  an  encyclopedia,  he  has  grown 
less  and  less  perhaps,  certainly  not  more  and  more,  of 
a  man  ?  Why  is  it  that  with  your  ever-increasing  won- 
der at  what  he  knows,  you  have  no  increased  respect  for 
him  ?  He  has  no  deep  convictions.  He  has  no  strength- 
ened reason.  Knowledge  has  come  to  him  but  wisdom 
has  lingered ;  not  in  a  technical  or  special  meaning,  but 
in  a  deep  and  human  sense  he  has  no  faith !  Or  per- 
haps what  strikes  you  still  more  is  that  his  best  and 
most  helpful  relations  to  his  fellow-men  have  faded  away 
in  the  thin  air  of  his  study.  He  has  grown  less  hu- 
man as  his  learning  has  increased.  His  sympathies 
have  dried  up.  He  values  his  knowledge  as  the  bot- 
anist values  his  flower,  —  for  the  curiousness  of  its 
structure ;  not  as  the  gardener  values  his  flower,  —  for 
the  richness  of  life  which  it  contains.  He  prefers  to 
press  his  flower  in  a  heavy  book,  rather  than  to  plant  it 
in  the  warm  and  fructifying  earth. 

What  can  we  say  of  such  a  scholar  but  that  he  does 
not  know  how  to  know.  There  is  a  science  of  knowl- 
edge, as  well  as  a  science  of  fossils,  and  a  science  of 


How  to  Abound.  153 


stars.  The  sacredness  of  all  knowledge  as  the  gift 
of  God ;  the  unity  of  all  knowledge  as  the  utterance  of 
God ;  the  purpose  of  all  knowledge  as  the  food  of  char- 
acter in  the  knower  and  the  helper  of  humanity  through 
him,  —  these  are  the  great  departments  of  that  science. 
Sometimes  we  see  a  scholar  who  has  learned  them  all, 
and  what  a  new  vision  he  gives  us  of  the  glory  of  schol- 
arship !  Men  who  know  less  than  he  do  not  begrudge 
or  disparage  his  knowledge.  The  light  that  is  in  him 
is  not  darkness ;  it  lightens  all  his  world.  And  oh,  my 
friends,  boys  studying  at  college,  men  and  women  read- 
ing books  and  struggling  so  restlessly  for  culture,  there 
is  no  way  to  fully  win  this  highest  knowledge,  —  the 
knowledge  of  how  to  know,  —  but  in  the  service  of  the 
God  of  Light,  who  is  also  the  God  of  Love,  the  God  of 
Character,  the  God  of  Man.  Any  industrious  man 
with  a  good  brain  and  a  good  memory  can  know  things 
if  he  will ;  only  the  reverent  and  devoted  man  can  know 
how  to  know. 

Or  turn  your  thoughts  to  another  sort  of  abundance 
—  the  abundance  of  friendship  and  acquaintances. 
"  Happy  the  man  of  many  friends, "  we  say ;  but  hardly 
have  we  said  it  when  we  stop  ourselves.  So  many  of 
the  men  of  many  friends  whom  we  have  known  have 
run  to  waste.  So  many  of  the  popular  men  have  been 
tyrannized  over  and  ruined  by  their  popularity.  Their 
principles  have  crumbled;  their  selfliood  has  melted 
away ;  they  have  become  mere  stocks  and  stones  for  fool- 
ish men  to  hang  garlands  on,  not  real  men,  real  utter- 
ances of  divine  life,  leading  their  fellow-men,  rebuking 
sins,  inspiring  struggles,  saving  souls. 


154  How  to  Abound. 


Ah,  yes !  Not  merely  to  make  men  love  you  and 
honor  you,  but  to  know  how  to  be  loved  and  honored 
without  losing  yourself  and  growing  weak,  —  that  is  the 
problem  of  many  of  the  sweetest,  richest,  most  attractive 
lives ;  and  there  is  only  one  solution  for  it,  which  blessed 
indeed  is  he  who  has  discovered !  To  stiffen  yourself 
against  the  praise  and  honor  of  your  fellow-men,  to  make 
yourself  insensible,  to  be  a  stoic  and  insist  you  will  not 
care  what  men  think  of  you,  that  is  the  base  way  of 
escape;  that  is  as  if  a  rich  man  escaped  avarice  by 
throwing  his  money  in  the  sea,  or  as  if  a  scholar  escaped 
pedantry  by  laboriously  forgetting  all  he  knew. 

But  if  the  much-beloved  man  can  look  up  and  demand 
the  love  of  God ;  if,  catching  sight  of  that,  he  can  crave 
it  and  covet  it  infinitely  above  all  other  love ;  if,  laying 
hold  of  its  great  freedom,  he  can  make  it  his,  and  know 
that  he  loves  God,  and  know  that  God  loves  him,  — 
then  he  is  free.  Then  let  him  come  back  and  take  into 
a  glowing  heart  the  warmest  admiration  and  affection 
of  his  brethren ;  let  him  walk  the  earth  with  hosts  of 
friends,  the  heaven  that  he  carries  in  his  heart  pre- 
serves him.  They  cannot  make  him  conceited,  for  he 
who  lives  with  God  must  be  humble.  They  cannot 
drown  his  selfhood,  for  the  God  he  loves  and  serves  is 
always  laying  upon  him  his  own  personal  duties,  and 
bringing  the  soul  before  its  own  judgment-seat  every 
day.  He  who  knows  that  God  loves  and  honors  him  may 
freely  take  all  other  love  and  honor,  however  abundant 
they  may  be,  and  he  will  get  no  harm.  All  that  is 
weak  and  foolish  and  unworthy  in  them,  he  will  cast 
aside;  all  that  is  worthy  he  will  take  worthily. 


Holo  to  Abound.  155 


And  now  1  come  to  the  last  sort  of  abundance  of 
which  I  wish  to  speak.  It  is  that  which  belongs  to  the 
Christian  experience.  I  speak  to  Christian  men,  —  to 
those  men  who  are  living  in  the  acknowledged  and  rec- 
ognized obedience  of  Christ.  Sad  is  the  Christian  life 
to  which  there  do  not  come  times  when  the  soul  seems 
to  be  living  in  great  spiritual  abundance.  The  world 
of  the  soul  grows  rich;  doubts  disappear;  faith  be- 
comes easy ;  the  assurance  of  God  is  on  every  side ;  the 
church  overruns  with  helpfulness;  trust  is  the  happy 
instinct  of  the  heart ;  peace,  like  a  great  sun-lit  ocean, 
receives  the  soul  and  soothes  its  anxieties  and  pains, 
and  makes  it  think  itself  almost  in  heaven.  Oh,  those 
are  very  sacred  days !  No  other  soul  may  know  in  what 
abundance  you  are  living;  but,  in  a  joy  too  deep  for 
songs,  you  live  on,  and  no  sorrow  has  the  power  to 
make  you  sorrowful.  Then  is  the  time,  my  friend,  my 
Christian  friend,  when  you  do  indeed  need  to  know  how 
to  abound.  For  such  times  have  their  very  deep  and 
subtle  dangers.  Spiritual  content,  self-satisfaction, 
idleness,  are  waiting  at  the  door ;  and  at  the  other  door 
the  powers  of  reaction,  — fear  which  will  feed  upon  the 
triumph  of  this  very  hope,  distrust  which  will  be  all 
the  stronger  for  this  earnest  faith,  they  too  are  waiting 
for  their  chance.  Oh,  critical  moment  of  a  Christian 
life!  Then  everything  depends  on  whether  you  are 
wise  enough  to  know  that  only  by  duty,  only  by  some 
brave,  self-sacrificing  service  of  this  Christ  of  whose 
love  all  your  soul  is  full,  can  Christ's  love  come  to  be 
your  permanent  possession,  and  this  peace  and  exalta- 
tion be  made  more  than  mere  spiritual  luxuries,  —  be 


156  How  to  Abound. 


made  indeed  a  true  new  life.  Many  a  Christian  has 
failed  just  there.  Soon  the  great  light,  unused,  has 
faded  away  and  left  the  soul  in  darkness.  Soon  peace 
which  was  not  vitalized  to  power  has  decayed  to  pride. 
Something  of  this  kind  has  come,  I  think,  to  whole 
generations,  to  whole  periods  of  Christianity.  But  see ! 
If  you  lift  up  your  head,  if  you  put  out  your  hand  and 
take  your  task,  which  certainly  is  waiting  for  you,  then 
instantly  your  high  emotions  know  their  place.  They 
turn  themselves  to  motives.  They  become  the  neces- 
sary habits  of  the  life.  They  prove  their  reality  by  what 
they  can  make  you  strong  to  do.  No  cloud  can  hide 
them  from  you,  no  Satan's  hand  can  rob  you  of  them, 
for  they  have  entered  in  through  the  open  door  of  your 
will,  and  have  become  a  true  part  of  you. 

If  there  are  any  of  you,  dear  friends,  to  whom  to-day, 
by  the  kind  grace  of  God,  peace  and  faith  and  vision 
are  thus  rich  and  real,  I  beg  you  to  bestir  yourself  and 
make  them  yours  forever  by  doing  some  great  hard  duty 
in  their  strength.  That  is  the  only  way  to  keep  them. 
Let  no  spiritual  exaltation  come  to  you  without  your  lift- 
ing yourself  up  in  its  present  power,  and  doing  some 
work  for  God  which  in  your  weaker  moments  and  lower 
moods  has  scared  you  with  its  difficulty.  For  duty  is 
the  only  tabernacle  within  which  a  man  can  always 
make  his  home  upon  the  transfiguration  mountain. 

And  so  in  each  of  these  several  departments  of  our 
life  it  is  not  enough  that  a  man  shall  have  attained  abun- 
dance, he  must  also  know  how  to  abound  in  riches,  in 
learning,  in  friendship,  in  spiritual  privilege ;  there  is  a 


How  to  Abound.  157 


deeper  knowledge  -which  alone  can  fasten  the  treasure 
which  you  have  won,  and  make  it  truly  yours,  and  draw 
out  its  best  use.  What  a  great  principle  that  is !  Under 
that  principle,  as  I  said,  a  man  may  even  be  the  master 
of  the  heart  and  soul  of  some  possessions  whose  form 
he  does  not  own.  I  know  that  Jesus,  the  poor  man  who 
walked  through  rich  Jerusalem  and  had  not  where  to 
lay  his  head,  had  still  the  key  of  all  that  wealth.  He 
knew  how  to  be  rich,  and  so  He  was  more  master  of 
the  heart  of  riches  than  any  of  the  rich  men  in  the  great 
houses,  whose  wealth  was  crushing  them  into  misers,  or 
dissipating  their  powers  in  frivolity.  And  so  with  you 
and  me ;  we  cannot  attain  to  all  abundance  in  this  one 
short  life  which  is  our  only  one,  but  if  we  can  come 
to  God  and  be  His  servants,  the  knowledge  of  how  to  be 
things  which  we  shall  never  be  may  enter  into  us.  In 
poverty  we  may  have  the  blessing  of  riches ;  in  enforced 
ignorance  the  blessing  of  knowledge ;  in  loneliness  the 
blessing  of  friendship ;  and  in  suspense  and  doubt  the 
blessing  of  peace  and  rest. 

Let  me  close  all  that  I  have  said  this  morning  with 
two  exhortations. 

There  are  struggling  men  here,  —  men  working  day 
and  night  for  the  precious  things  which  make  life  full 
and  rich.  Go  on  and  struggle;  only  remember  that 
your  struggle  will  be  worthless,  however  you  may  get 
the  things  you  seek,  unless  you  can  get  not  merely  the 
bodies  of  those  things  but  their  souls.  This  was 
Christ's  exhortation,  "  Not  for  the  meat  which  perish- 
eth  but  for  that  meat  which  endureth  unto  everlasting 


15S  How  to  Abound. 


life. "  Be  satisfied  with  no  gain  unless  you  can  carry 
into  its  possession  such  a  soul  and  spirit  that  it  can 
make  of  you  a  better,  a  truer,  and  a  larger  man. 

And  oh,  my  young  friends,  prosperous  and  happy, 
with  life  all  full  of  hope  and  chance  and  light,  go  on 
and  take  the  great  abundance  which  God  is  offering 
you ;  only  do  not  dare  to  go  on  into  it  all  until  first  you 
have  prayed  to  God  that  He  will  make  you  know  how 
to  abound.  Pray  for  new  hearts,  large  hearts  which 
shall  be  worthy  of  your  privileges,  and  then  go  on  and 
without  a  fear  take  them  all ;  for  no  lot  is  too  rich  for 
a  soul  that  enters  into  it  full  of  humility  before  God, 
and  love  for  fellow-man,  and  a  deep  desire  for  holiness. 
So  may  you  go  on  to  all  the  blessings  of  full  and  happy 
lives. 


X. 

HOW  TO  BE  ABASED. 

I  know  how  to  be  abased.  —  Phil.  iv.  12. 

I  SPOKE  to  you  last  Sunday  about  knowing  how  to  be 
rich.  Let  us  think  to-day  about  knowing  how  to  be 
poor.  Saint  Paul  declared  that  he  had  both  kinds  of 
knowledge,  and  certainly  he  had  had  the  chance  to  win 
this  last ;  for  his  had  been  a  life  of  poverty.  First  as 
the  poor  student,  then  as  the  poor  missionary,  he  had 
never  known  what  it  was  to  live  an  easy  life.  He  had 
met  all  the  temptations,  he  had  enjoyed  all  the  oppor- 
tunities which  hardship  involves.  He  knew  them  from 
his  personal  experience.  And  after  all,  the  knowledge 
of  hardship  and  privation  which  comes  from  personal  ex- 
perience, must  always  have  a  reality  which  cannot  be- 
long to  any  other  kind  of  knowledge  of  them.  There  is  a 
way,  a  true  way,  —  as  I  pointed  out  last  Sunday,  —  in 
which  a  man  may  be  able  to  say  in  the  midst  of  his  abun- 
dance, "  I  know  how  to  live  the  life  which  is  destitute  of 
all  this. "  There  is  a  central  knowledge,  a  knowledge 
of  the  heart  of  things,  a  consecration  to  God  who  is  the 
King  and  Heart  of  things,  which  makes  it  possible  for 
one  to  know  conditions  in  which  he  has  never  lived ;  but 
still  the  supreme  reality  of  personal  experience  remains. 
The  poor  man  looks  askance  while  the  rich  man  talks  tq 


160  How  to  he  Abased. 


him  about  poverty.  "  Wait  till  you  have  tried  it, "  he 
says.  And  the  rich  man  owns  the  rebuke  to  his  theo- 
retical wisdom  and  is  silent  and  almost  ashamed. 
Nothing  of  this  kind  is  there  in  Saint  Paul.  However 
we  may  have  hesitated  when  he  said,  "  I  know  how  to 
abound, "  when  he  says  this  other  thing,  "  I  know  how 
to  be  abased,"  we  accept  most  cordially  the  self-asser- 
tion of  a  man  who  has  come  out  of  the  midst  of  perse- 
cutions and  disappointments  and  disasters  and  poverty, 
with  a  strength  of  character  and  a  record  of  work  which 
has  been  one  of  the  great  glories  of  the  world. 

All  men  have  owned  that  the  knowledge  which  Paul 
claimed  is  not  an  easy  one  to  win  or  keep.  To  know 
how  to  be  poor !  Plenty  of  people  there  are  who  are  set 
down  to  the  hard  lesson.  Plenty  of  people  —  yes,  all 
people,  in  different  degrees  and  different  ways  —  are  led 
into  some  disappointment  and  abasement,  but  how  few 
seem  to  stand  in  it  evidently  the  stronger  and  the  better 
for  it.  How  few  look  when  they  are  in  it  as  if  they  un- 
derstood it,  and  come  out  of  it  as  if  it  had  done  them 
good.  Indeed,  men's  feeling  with  regard  to  the  possi- 
ble blessing  of  adversity  and  trouble  is,  I  think,  very 
suggestive  and  significant.  They  know  there  is  some 
secret  hidden  there,  but  it  seems  to  be  hidden  so  pro- 
foundly that  it  is  almost  hopeless  to  find  it,  and  the 
effort  to  find  it  is  most  dangerous.  Poverty  seems  to 
men  to  be  like  the  old  fabled  sphinx,  —  a  mysterious 
being  who  has  in  herself  the  secrets  of  life,  but  who 
holds  them  fast,  and  tells  them  only  in  riddles,  and 
devours  the  brave,  unfortunate  adventurers  who  try  to 
guess  at  the  wisdom  she  conceals  and  fail.     The  result 


How  to  he  Abased.  161 


is  that  few  men  seek  her  wisdom  voluntarily.  It  is 
only  when  all  the  other  schools  turn  them  out  that  they 
will  go  to  hers.  Her  gifts  of  wisdom  seem  to  be  pos- 
sibly very  rich,  but  actually  very  hard  to  win,  and  to  be 
meant  for  single  and  exceptional  souls  rather  than  for 
the  ordinary  run  of  men.  Is  not  this  the  feeling  about 
the  uses  of  adversity,  —  that,  while  probably  the  few 
very  best  men  which  the  world  has  seen  have  been 
trained  by  disappointment,  the  general  mass  of  the 
world's  average  virtue  has  been  educated  by  success; 
that  disappointment  and  difficulty  make  the  officers, 
but  prosperity  makes  the  rank  and  file  of  the  great  hu- 
man army ;  that  while  the  best  man  in  all  the  world  to- 
day, probably,  if  we  could  find  him,  would  prove  to  be  a 
very  poor  man,  —  perhaps  a  man  just  on  the  brink  of 
starvation,  —  it  is  the  moderately  comfortable  classes  of 
mankind  in  which  you  will  find  the  highest  level  of  good 
and  comely  living?  If  these  are  the  ordinary  judg- 
ments of  mankind  about  the  blessing  of  abasement,  I 
think  we  ought  to  be  interested  in  what  Paul's  words 
suggest  about  knowing  how  to  be  poor. 

And  at  the  very  outset,  to  come  at  once  to  the  con- 
trolling idea  of  what  we  have  to  say,  do  we  not  feel  in 
Saint  Paul's  words  a  certain  tone  and  accent  which  con- 
vey to  us  some  sort  of  idea  that  to  him  abasement,  as  he 
called  it,  was  a  positive  thing,  was  not  simply  a  condi- 
tion of  privation,  but  was  something  definite  and  real, 
—  something  with  a  character  and  influences  of  its 
own;  not  merely  a  condition  of  being  without  some- 
thing, but  a  condition  of  being  with,  of  being  in,  some- 
thing else  ?     You   cannot  imagine  him  as   he  writes 

11 


162  How  to  he  Abased. 


thinking  of  himself  as  one  who  is  waiting  outside  of 
doors  where  he  is  wholly  anxious  to  enter  in,  the  cul- 
tivation which  comes  to  him  as  he  stands  outside  being 
only  the  negative  education  of  patience.  It  is  evidently 
a  distinct  region  of  life  in  which  he  finds  himself, 
where  so  long  as  he  lives  there  is  a  special  harvest  for 
him  to  reap  which  he  could  reap  nowhere  else.  To  rec-; 
ognize  the  land  in  which  he  finds  himself,  and  to  reap 
the  harvest  which  he  finds  waiting  for  him  there,  —  that 
is  the  knowledge  of  how  to  be  abased  which  Paul  is 
thankfully  claiming;  that  is  what  all  his  life  of  abase- 
ment has  given  him. 

This  appears  in  many  of  the  words  of  Paul.  He 
writes  to  the  Corinthians,  "I  take  pleasure  in  infirmi- 
ties, in  reproaches,  in  necessities,  in  persecutions,  in 
distresses  for  Christ's  sake ;  for  when  I  am  weak,  then 
am  I  strong."  There  is  a  noble  dignity  about  those 
words.  They  are  not  the  words  of  one  who  is  merely 
trying  to  console  himself  for  the  lack  of  comfort,  and 
to  hold  out  till  comfort  shall  bestow  itself  upon  him. 
They  are  the  words  of  a  man  whom  circumstances, 
which  he  knows  to  be  the  hands  of  God,  have  led  into  a 
certain  life.  He  has  not  led  himself  there ;  he  has  not 
chosen  poverty ;  he  has  not  tried  to  be  poor ;  but  being 
in  that  land  of  poverty,  he  looks  about,  and  lo!  it  is 
not  barren.  It  has  pleasures,  revelations,  cultivations 
of  its  own.  It  has  its  own  peculiar  relationships  to 
Grod.  It  is  not  necessary  to  say  whether  it  is  poorer  or 
richer  than  the  other  land,  the  land  of  profusion  and 
al)undance.  It  is  a  true  land  by  itself ;  and  Paul,  who 
lives  there,  honors  and  respects  it,  and  so  it  honors  him 


How  to  he  Abased.  1G3 

and  gives  him  freely  its  own  peculiar  strength ;  and  ho 
stands  in  the  midst  of  it  and  cries,  "  When  I  am  weak, 
then  am  I  strong. " 

Is  there  not  here  a  true  intelligible  picture  of  the  way 
in  which  a  man  may  know  how  to  be  abased  ?  If  it  is 
possible  to  look  upon  a  limited,  restricted  life  as  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  life  with  its  own  peculiar  chances  and  en- 
lightenments out  of  which  a  man,  if  he  knows  how,  may 
get  a  character ;  in  which  a  man,  if  he  knows  how,  may 
live  a  life  which  would  be  impossible  elsewhere,  —  then 
certainly  this  limited,  restricted  life  may  win  and  hold 
an  affectionate  respect  which  is  a  positive  thing  and 
may  be  very  strong  and  real.  We  need  not  be  haunted 
with  the  demon  of  comparison ;  we  need  not  say  whether 
the  cultures  and  pleasures  of  abasement  are  greater  or 
less  than  those  of  abundance;  enough  that  it  has  its 
own,  peculiar  to  itself,  and  full  of  value.  Life  is  a 
medal  with  two  sides ;  the  other  side,  as  we  choose  to 
call  it,  has  its  own  image  and  superscription,  and  is  not 
made  up  only  of  the  depressions  which  are  necessary  to 
make  the  elevations  on  the  face.  Or  change  the  figure : 
we  live  here  in  rocky  New  England.  Surely  there  is 
something  more  to  say  of  its  harsh  landscape  than 
simply  that  it  has  not  the  palms  of  Egypt  or  the  oranges 
of  Florida.  We  need  not  talk  of  it  or  think  of  it  in 
negatives.  It  has  its  own  peculiar  wealth  of  forest  and 
pasture  and  pond;  it  has  its  own  peculiar  beauty  of 
rocky  ridges  and  broad  sea-shore  beaches ;  it  has  its 
own  sky  and  soil  and  water ;  and  we  who  live  here  are 
not  merely  resigned  to  our  New  England  life  and  cli- 
mate from  necessity.     We  honor  it  and  love  it  for  its 


164  How  to  he  Abased. 


own  intrinsic  qualities.  The  pine-tree  is  as  real  a  thing 
as  the  palm-tree.  It  does  not  be  a  pine-tree  merely  be- 
cause it  cannot  be  a  palm ;  and  surely  it  has  no  com- 
plaint to  make.  This  is  the  picture  in  my  mind  of  the 
positive  nature  of  a  life  of  abasement  which  makes  it 
worthy  of  honor  and  respect. 

Such  an  idea  as  this  is  not  in  any  way  inconsistent 
with  the  constant  struggle  of  the  abased  and  limited 
life  toward  profusion  and  enrichment.  Each  stage  or 
kind  of  existence  keeps  the  possibilities  of  its  own  char- 
acter, although  it  feels  the  impulse  which  is  always 
moving  it  on  toward  another  stage  or  kind  of  life. 
Boyhood  is  a  positive  thing  while  it  lasts,  although  it 
is  forever  being  carried  on  toward  manhood.  Rugged 
New  England  may  still  struggle  to  improve  her  soil  and 
grow  as  near  the  palm-tree  as  she  can,  while  still  she 
treasures  and  honors  the  characteristics  which  her  pres- 
ent condition  has  decreed.  To  honor  the  life  you  live 
in  now  and  here  for  its  intrinsic  goodness,  part  of  that 
goodness  consisting  in  the  fact  that  it  may  open  into 
some  more  abundant  life,  so  to  hold  within  it  in  perfect 
balance  contentment  and  hope  together,  —  that  cer- 
tainly must  be  the  way  for  a  man  to  get  the  best  out  of 
any  stage  of  living. 

I  shall  venture  to  take  again  for  the  illustration  and 
enforcement  of  what  I  have  been  saying,  the  same  enu- 
meration of  the  departments  of  living  which  I  used  last 
Sunday.  Abasement  of  life,  like  enrichment  of  life,  is 
a  term  which  may  be  applied  to  wealth  or  to  learning 
or  to  friendships  or  to  spiritual  privilege.  Let  me 
speak  of  each- 


How  to  he  Abased.  165 

Here  is  the  poor  man  then  —  in  the  most  literal 
sense,  the  man  who  has  not  money !  His  face  and  fig- 
ure is  familiar  enough.  I  rejoice  to  know  that  he  is 
here  this  morning,  and  that  I  may  speak  to  him  to-day 
as  I  spoke  last  Sunday  to  his  wealthier  friend.  I  should 
be  sorry  indeed  to  be  the  minister  of  any  church  in 
which  I  might  not  speak  to  both.  And  how  shall  one 
speak  to  the  poor  man  ?  That  must  depend  upon  what 
the  speaker  thinks  he  sees  in  the  poor  man's  face, 
upon  what  is  the  attitude  in  which  the  poor  man  stands 
toward  life.  What  some  of  his  possible  attitudes  to- 
ward life  are,  we  know.  To  take  the  meanest  first,  he 
may  be  servile  and  cringing  in  the  presence  of  a  wealth 
some  of  whose  overflowing  crumbs  he  thinks  that  he 
can  coax  to  fall  into  his  lap ;  or,  with  more  spirit,  he 
may  be  eagerly  envious  and  jealous,  over-estimating  the 
unknown  luxury  of  wealth,  and  restless  so  long  as  he 
must  go  without  the  things  his  richer  neighbors  have ; 
always  in  feverish  struggle  to  be  rich  himself.  Or,  with 
the  same  cause  working  just  the  other  way,  he  may  de- 
spise the  abundance  which  has  not  fallen  to  his  lot.  He 
may  denounce  wealth  as  wickedness ;  he  may  grow  bit- 
ter and  morose,  and  talk  about  his  poverty,  which  cer- 
tainly he  has  not  deliberately  chosen,  as  if  it  had 
somehow  a  sort  of  merit  in  itself.  Now  all  these  atti- 
tudes of  the  poor  man  toward  life,  different  as  they  are 
from  one  another,  have  this  in  common,  —  that  they  are 
all  shaped  and  controlled  by  the  man's  perpetual  con- 
sciousness that  he  is  not  as  rich  as  other  men;  therefore 
they  all  have  a  touch  of  slavishness  about  them.  If  my 
neighbor's  wealth  keeps  me  in  a  condition  of  continual 


166  How  to  he  Abased. 


defiance,  I  am  as  much  the  slave  of  it  as  if  it  kept  me 
in  a  condition  of  continual  obsequience.  It  controls 
my  life.  It  decides  what  I  shall  be,  and  interferes 
with  my  self-decision;  and  that  is  slavery. 

But  now  suppose  that  some  bright  day  of  freedom 
comes,  —  some  day  when  I  forget  comparisons  and  do  not 
think  whether  my  neighbor  is  richer  or  poorer  than  I, 
Still  I  am  just  as  poor  as  I  was  before.  Still  all  the  posi- 
tive condition  of  my  poverty  remains,  but  now  it  is  posi- 
tive not  negative,  not  relative ;  and  so  it  has  a  chance  to 
show  me  its  true  character.  A  rugged,  barren  land  it  is 
to  live  in  still,  —  a  land  where  I  am  thankful  very  often 
if  I  can  get  a  berry  or  a  root  to  eat;  but  living  in  it 
really,  letting  it  bear  witness  to  me  of  itself,  not  dis- 
honoring it  all  the  time  by  judging  it  after  the  stand- 
ards of  the  other  lands,  gradually  there  come  out  its 
qualities.  Behold !  no  land  like  this  barren  and  naked 
land  of  poverty  could  show  the  moral  geology  of  the 
world.  See  how  the  hard  ribs  which  make  the  stony 
structure  of  the  planet  stand  out  strong  and  solid.  No 
life  like  poverty  could  so  get  one  to  the  heart  of  things 
and  make  men  know  their  meaning,  could  so  let  us  feel 
life  and  the  world  with  all  the  soft  cushions  stripped  off 
and  thrown  away.  No  life  like  poverty  could  call  out 
such  need  for  struggle.  Poverty  makes  men  come 
very  near  each  other,  and  recognize  each  other's  human 
"hearts ;  and  poverty,  highest  and  best  of  all,  demands  and 
cries  out  for  faith  in  God.  Not  with  a  greater  need, 
but  with  a  more  ready  consciousness  of  need,  than 
wealth,  it  turns  in  the  destitution  of  external  things  to 
the  internal,  to  the  spiritual,  to  the  eternal,  to  God. 


How  to  he  Abased.  167 

Now  it  is  not  right  to  think  of  these  things  as  mere 
mitigations  of  a  lot  whose  real  intrinsic  quality  is  that 
it  is  not  wealthy.  On  the  contrary,  they  themselves 
make  a  lot  with  its  own  qualities,  with  a  value  of  its 
own.  Do  you  quietly  laugh  and  say,  "At  least,  how- 
ever fine  you  may  make  them  sound  as  you  describe 
them,  no  man  would  ever  see  in  them  such  a  value  that 
he  would  be  poor  for  the  sake  of  living  the  life  which 
those  things  make  "  ?  The  answer  is,  "  Men  have  done 
it.  Men  of  other  races,  other  standards,  other  natures 
than  yours  have  deliberately  chosen  poverty  because  it 
seemed  to  make  the  richest  and  most  honorable  life. 
And  men  of  all  races,  of  all  times,  who  have  not  chosen 
it  but  have  been  led  into  it  by  God,  have  found  when 
they  had  come  there  a  true  life  which  satisfied  them. " 

I  know  how  superficial  and  unfeeling,  how  like  mere 
mockery,  words  in  praise  of  poverty  may  seem.  I  am 
not  taunting  the  poor  man  by  telling  him  that  it  is  bet- 
ter to  be  poor.  God  forbid !  But  I  am  sure  that  the 
poor  man's  dignity  and  freedom,  his  self-respect  and 
energy,  depend  upon  his  cordial  knowledge  that  his 
poverty  is  a  true  region  and  kind  of  life  with  its  own 
chances  of  character,  its  own  springs  of  happiness,  and 
revelations  of  God.  Let  him  resist  the  characterless- 
ness which  often  comes  with  being  poor.  Let  him  in- 
sist on  respecting  the  condition  where  he  lives.  Let 
him  learn  to  love  it  so  that  by  and  by  when  he  grows 
rich  he  shall  go  out  of  the  low  door  of  the  old  familiar 
poverty  with  a  true  pang  of  regret,  and  with  a  true 
honor  for  the  narrow  home  where  he  has  lived  so  long, 
and  which  he  leaves  to  other  men.     We  know  that  such 


168  How  to  he  Abased. 


a  reverence  of  the  poor  man  for  his  poverty  is  possible ; 
for  men  enough  vrhom  we  could  name  have  borne  in- 
dubitable testimony  that  they  have  felt  it.  Sometimes 
it  has  been  almost  elevated  and  incorporated  into  a  re- 
ligion. We  know  that  any  man  who  truly  feels  that 
reverence  for  his  own  poverty  is  thereby  liberated  from 
the  worst  part  of  the  slavery  to  wealth.  He  may  still 
struggle  to  be  rich,  but  he  is  not  the  slave  of  other 
men's  riches  nor  of  his  own  unwon  wealth  for  which  he 
strives.  Calm,  dignified,  self-respectful,  with  no  bit- 
terness and  no  pride,  —  who  but  he  is  the  man  who 
knows  how  to  be  abased  ? 

I  must  pass  on  and  speak  about  the  way  in  which  a 
man  may  know  how  to  be  poor  in  learning.  That  was 
our  second  point.  There  are  many  of  us  who  need  that 
knowledge,  —  many  of  us  who  before  we  have  got  well 
into  life  see  what  a  great  world  learning  is,  and  also 
see  for  a  certainty  how  hopeless  it  is  that  we  shall  ever 
do  more  than  set  our  feet  upon  its  very  outermost  bord- 
ers. Some  life  of  practical  duty  claims  us ;  some  career 
of  business  all  made  up  of  hard  details,  sharp,  clear, 
inexorable,  each  one  requiring  to  be  dealt  with  on  the 
instant,  takes  possession  of  us  and  holds  us  fast,  and 
the  great  stream  of  learning  into  which  we  long  to 
plunge  and  swim  sweeps  by  our  chained  feet  and  we  can 
only  look  down  into  its  tempting  waters  and  sigh  over 
our  fate.  How  many  practical  men  —  men  who  seem 
to  be  totally  absorbed  and  perfectly  satisfied  in  their 
busy  life  —  really  live  in  this  discontent  at  being  shut 
out  from  the  riclmess  of  learning.  Is  there  a  right  way 
and  a  wrong  way,  a  wise  way  and  a  foolish  way  of  liv- 


How  to  he  Abased.  169 


ing  in  that  discontent  ?  Indeed  there  is.  The  foolish 
ways  are  evident  enough.  The  unlearned  man  who  by 
and  by  is  heard  sneering  at  learning,  glorifying  ma- 
chineries, boasting  that  he  sees  and  wants  to  see  no 
visions  and  that  he  never  theorizes,  — he  has  not  known 
how  to  be  ignorant.  He  has  let  his  ignorance  master 
and  overcome  him.  It  has  made  him  its  slave.  The 
man  who,  the  more  he  became  conscious  of  his  hopeless- 
ness of  great  scholarship,  has  grown  more  and  more 
sensible  of  what  a  great  thing  it  is  to  be  a  scholar ;  and 
at  the  same  time,  by  the  same  process,  has  grown  more 
and  more  respectful  toward  his  own  side  of  life,  more 
and  more  conscious  of  the  value  of  practical  living  as  a 
true  contribution  to  the  great  final  whole;  the  man 
therefore  who  has  gone  on  his  way,  as  most  of  us  have 
to  do,  with  little  learning,  but  has  also  gone  on  his  way 
doing  duty  faithfully,  developing  all  the  practical  skill 
that  is  in  him,  and  sometimes,  just  because  their  de- 
tails are  so  dark  to  him,  getting  rich  visions  of  the  gen- 
eral light  and  glory  of  the  great  sciences,  seen  afar  off, 
seen  as  great  wholes,  which  often  seem  to  be  denied  to 
the  plodders  who  spend  their  lives  in  the  close  study  of 
those  sciences,  — he  is  the  man  who  knows  how  to  be 
unlearned.  It  is  a  blessed  thing  that  there  is  such  a 
knowledge  possible  for  overworked,  practical  men.  The 
man  who  has  that  knowledge  may  be  self-respectful  in 
the  face  of  all  the  colleges.  He  may  stand  before  the 
kings  of  learning  and  not  be  ashamed;  for  his  lot  is 
as  true  a  part  of  life  as  theirs,  and  he  is  bravely  hold- 
ing up  his  side  of  that  great  earth  over  which  the  plans 
of  God  are  moving  on  to  their  completenesa. 


170  How  to  he  Abased. 

And  next  we  speak  about  the  destitution  of  friend- 
ships, which  is  the  appointed  life  of  many  people.  Is 
it  a  hard  thing  to  know  how  to  be  poor  in,  perhaps  al- 
most destitute  of,  cordial  associations  with  our  fellow- 
men  ?  "  Let  them  pass  me  by !  I  know  well  enough 
how  to  do  without  their  help  or  their  society ! "  Who 
has  not  heard  those  scornful  words  coming  out  of  the 
hot  lips  of  some  angry  man,  and  been  sure,  as  he  heard 
them,  that  the  man  who  spoke  them  did  not  know  the 
very  thing  which  he  boasted  that  he  knew  so  well. 
For,  as  I  said  last  Sunday,  no  man  knows  how  to  do 
a  thing,  who  does  it  so  that  it  makes  him  a  worse 
and  not  a  better  man.  We  say  that  society  is  a  fine 
art.  It  may  be  true  that  solitude  is  a  finer.  To  get 
along  with  our  fellow-men  seems  often  very  hard,  but 
to  get  along  without  them  seems  impossible. 

But  let  me  suppose  that  somewhere  in  these  pews  this 
morning  is  a  man  or  woman  whose  life  seems  in  some 
strange,  marked  way  to  have  been  left  out  of  the  great 
currents  of  humanity.  Perhaps  your  very  earliest  days 
were  without  the  protection  of  a  father's  and  a  mother's 
care;  no  circle  of  friends  received  you  into  the  warm 
world  of  its  hospitality ;  your  own  nature  has  not  been 
such  as  has  easily  attracted  friendship ;  your  business 
has  been  of  some  solitary  sort;  and  besides  all  these 
things,  what  we  call  accident  has  seemed  to  always 
break  every  crystallization  just  as  it  was  being  formed. 
Not  even  the  church  has  seemed  to  gather  your  life  into 
the  natural  and  cordial  society  of  other  lives;  so  you 
have  lived  alone.  Years,  years  ago  you  must  have 
found   what  a  problem  had  been  set  you  in  that  iso- 


How  to  he  Abased.  171 


lated  life.  You  must  have  seen  that  as  it  offered  you 
temptations  and  dangers,  so  it  offered  you  also  chances 
of  its  own.  You  must  have  seen  that,  without  disparag- 
ing the  social  life  wnich  opened  to  other  men  more 
readily  than  it  did  to  you,  without  ceasing  to  keep  your- 
self ready  for  it  if  it  came,  tnere  still  were  certain 
valuable  things  which,  while  it  did  not  come,  were 
peculiarly  within  the  power  of  your  solitude.  Whether 
you  have  attained  those  valuable  things  or  not,  you  can 
at  least  imagine  what  they  are.  Can  you  not  picture 
to  yourself  a  man  who,  shut  out  by  any  circumstances 
from  most  active  contact  with  his  fellow-men,  became 
thereby  a  watcher  of  the  universal  human  life  in  such  a 
way,  from  such  a  point  of  view,  that  he  saw  it  more 
truly  than  if  he  were  in  the  very  heart  of  its  whirl  and 
movement  ?  A  wiser  insight,  a  larger  knowledge  of 
mankind,  a  broader  vision  of  the  significance  and,  one 
may  say,  of  the  glory  of  human  life  may  surely  come  to 
him  who  looks  at  it,  as  it  were,  sympathetically  from 
the  outside,  as  a  true  man,  and  yet  in  some  degree  as  a 
spectator  of  humanity.  The  planet  Mars  shines  for  us 
with  a  light  which  no  citizen  of  Mars  can  see. 

And  then  something  more  may  come.  The  man  thus 
gazing  upon  life  may  see  in  the  larger  aspects  which 
are  given  to  him,  revelations  of  God.  The  Great  King 
may  show  Himself  to  one  who  gazes  with  such  thought- 
ful and  broad  view  at  His  Kingdom.  And  then,  having 
seen  the  King  and  loved  Him,  the  watchful  man  may 
come  back  to  the  Kingdom  which  first  revealed  that 
King,  and  love  it  for  His  sake.  Here  is  a  noble  and 
natural  and  beautiful  progress.     I  am  sure  that  it  has 


172  How  to  he  Abased. 


made  the  charm  and  strength  of  many  men  who  have 
seemed  somehow  to  be  rather  spectators  of  life  than 
themselves  deeply  involved  in  the  complexity  of  living. 
They  have  often  been  men  who  have  loved  their  race 
with  the  deepest  and  the  largest  love.  The  enthusiasm 
of  humanity  often  has  seemed  strong  in  them  just  in 
proportion  as  their  lives  had  little  contact  with  the  per- 
sonal lives  around  them,  and  it  has  come  about  through 
God.  The  large  sight  of  the  world  has  first  led  them 
to  Him,  and  then  from  Him  they  have  come  back  to 
love  His  Kingdom. 

Now  here  is  something  which  is  much  more  than 
compensation  and  consolation.  It  is  not  a  reward 
given  by  pity  to  make  up  for  the  loss  of  the  privilege 
of  social  life.  It  is  a  life  itself.  It  brings  out  its 
own  qualities  and  powers  in  the  man  who  lives  it.  He 
may  think  it  better  or  worse  than  some  other  life ;  he 
may  endeavor  to  pass  out  of  it  into  a  fuller  life ;  but 
while  he  lives  in  it,  it  ought  to  be  always  making  him 
more  profoundly  aware  of  his  own  soul,  more  reverent 
toward  God,  more  able  to  think  great  thoughts  of  his 
fellow-men.  If  you  must  pass  through  what  is  even  a 
desert  to  get  to  fertile,  smiling  lands  beyond,  still  it  is 
not  good  to  count  even  the  desert  a  mere  necessary  evil 
to  be  got  through  and  forgotten  as  soon  as  possible.  It 
is  good  as  you  plod  through  the  sand  to  feed  your  eyes 
with  the  vastness  and  simplicity  of  the  world  which 
the  monotony  of  sky  and  sand  can  most  impressively 
display  to  you.  So  if  God  has  appointed  to  any  of  us 
times  of  solitude  and  f riendlessness,  —  perhaps  times  of 
unpopularity  and  neglect,  —  let  us  pray  that  we  may  not 


How  to  he  Abased.  173 


pass  through  them,  however  dreary  they  may  be,  with- 
out bringing-  out  from  them  greater  conceptions  of  Him 
and  of  our  fellow-men  and  of  ourselves.  This  is  the  way 
in  which  a  man  may  show  that  he  has  known  how  to 
live  alone,  or  even  to  live  neglected  and  despised. 

And  so  we  come  to  the  last  of  our  specified  instances 
of  abasement,  —  the  loss  of  spiritual  exaltation  and  de- 
light. It  is  a  loss  indeed.  Delight,  enthusiasm,  hope, 
content,  —  these  are  the  true  conditions  of  a  Christian 
life,  just  as  song  is  the  true  condition  of  the  bird,  or 
color  of  the  rose.  But  just  as  the  bird  is  still  a  bird 
although  it  cannot  sing,  and  the  rose  is  still  a  rose  al- 
though its  red  grows  dull  and  faded  in  some  dark,  close 
room  where  it  is  compelled  to  grow, —  so  the  Christian 
is  a  Christian  still,  even  although  his  soul  is  dark  with 
doubt,  and  he  goes  staggering  on,  fearing  every  moment 
that  he  will  fall,  never  daring  to  look  up  and  hope.  To 
such  conditions  of  depression  every  Christian  some- 
times comes.  In  such  a  condition  many  Christians 
seem  to  live  all  along  through  their  melancholy  lives. 
What  then  ?  What  shall  we  say  ?  It  is  not  good.  It 
is  not  necessary.  That  we  ought  to  know  first  of  all. 
Let  us  beware  of  giving  to  such  moods  and  conditions 
any  such  advantage  as  would  come  from  thinking  them 
to  be  the  right  and  true  condition  of  a  himible  Chris- 
tian life.  Humility  for  the  Christian,  the  truest 
humility,  means  hope  and  enthusiasm.  It  must  be  so. 
Since  the  whole  strength  of  the  Christian  experience  is 
in  the  Saviour  and  not  in  the  soul,  the  real  acceptance 
of  the  Saviour  by  the  soul  must,  just  in  proportion  as 
it  is  complete,  endow  the  soul  with  His  vision  and  open 


174  How  to  he  Abased. 


before   it  all   His  certain   prospects  of  success.     No! 
To  be  distrustful  and  gloomy  in  the  Christian  life  is 
not  a  sign  of  humility ;  often  it  is  a  sign  of  pride.     Yet 
the   evident    distinction   still   remains.      A   man  may 
be  a  Christian  and   yet  fail  of  a  Christian's  rapture 
and  peace.     And  what  then  ?     While  he  walks  in  the 
darkness,  he  must  know  how  to  be  abased.     However 
he  ought  to  be  up  and  out  of  this  condition,  yet  while 
he  lives  in  it  there  is  a  right  way  and  a  wrong  way  for 
him  to  live.     Then  there  comes  in  the  great  regulative 
force  of  duty,  —  duty,  the  due,  the  thing  that  ought  to 
be  done.     Oh,  how  we  come  to  value  the  perpetual  min- 
istry of  that  great  power !     I  spoke  last  Sunday  of  how 
it  kept  the  soul  in  its  exaltations  from  flying  wildly 
off  into  vague  rhapsodies  and  dreams.     Behold,  to-day 
how  this  same  power  of  duty  preserves  the  soul  in  its 
depression  from  despair !     Then  when  all  higher  light 
seems  dark,  may  be  the  very  time  when  the  light  on 
daily  tasks  grows  clear.     You  cannot  see  the  distant 
heaven.     You  cannot  hear  the  songs  of  angels.     You 
cannot   even  say  assuredly  that  you  know  the  love  of 
God,  — but  you  do  know  that  to  be  brave  and  true  and 
pure  is  better  than  to  be  cowardly  and  false  and  foul. 
You  do  know  that  there  are  men  and  women  all  about 
you  suffering,  some  of  them  dying,  for  sympathy  and 
help.     You  do  know  that  whether  God  loves  you  or  not, 
right  is  right !     Oh,  how  these  great  simple  assurances 
come  out  when  the  higher  lights  of  the  loftier  experi- 
ences grow  dark !     I  will  not  say,  I  dare  not  say,  that 
God  lets  the  heavenly  light  be  darkened  in  order  that 
these  earthly  duties  may  appear.     I  only  say  that  when 


How  to  he  Abased.  175 


the  cloud  stretches  itself  across  the  heavens,  then,  un- 
derneath the  cloud  and  shut  out  from  the  sunshine,  the 
imprisoned  soul  still  finds  for  itself  a  rich  life  of  duty, 
a  life  of  self-control,  a  life  of  charity,  a  life  of  growth. 

Is  there  some  man  or  woman  here  who  says,  "My 
religious  life  has  no  exaltations,  no  high  hopes.  I  am 
not  equal  to  this  life  of  depression.  I  do  not  know  how 
to  be  abased.  I  do  not  know  how  to  go  on  and  be  true 
to  my  religion,  still  shut  out  from  its  divinest  hopes. " 
What  shall  our  answer  be  ?  The  world  of  duty  is  your 
world.  Go ;  do  your  duty,  giving  to  every  task  the  sub- 
limest  motive  which  you  know  and  which  you  can  bring 
to  bear  upon  it.  Get  at  the  essence  of  goodness,  which 
is  not  in  its  enthusiasms  or  delights,  but  in  its  heart  of 
consecration.  Sometimes  the  consecration  may  be  all 
the  more  thorough  and  complete  when  the  joy  of  conse- 
cration seems  to  be  farthest  away.  And  yet  every  con- 
secration made  in  the  darkness  is  reaching  out  toward 
the  light,  and  in  the  end  must  come  out  into  the  light, 
strong  in  the  strength  which  it  won  in  its  life  and 
struggle  in  the  dark. 

So  here,  then,  is  one  brief  conclusion, — here  is  the 
result  and  substance  of  it  all :  Not  to  all  men,  not  to 
any  man  always  does  God  give  complete  abundance. 
To  all  men  sometimes,  to  some  men  in  long  stretches 
of  their  lives,  come  the  abasement  times,  —  times  of 
poverty,  times  of  ignorance,  times  of  friendlessness, 
times  of  distrust  and  doubt;  but  God  does  not  mean 
that  these  times  should  be  like  great  barren  stretches 
and  blanks  in  our  lives  only  to  be  travelled  over  for  the 


176  Hoio  to  he  Abased. 

sake  of  what  lies  beyond.  To  him  who,  like  Paul, 
knows  how  to  be  abased,  they  have  their  own  rich 
value.  They  do  for  him  their  own  good  work.  To  have 
our  desire  set  on  nothing  absolutely  except  character, 
to  be  glad  that  God  should  lead  us  into  any  land  where 
there  is  character  to  win,  —  this  is  the  only  real  expla- 
nation of  life.  He  that  has  it  may  be  more  than  rec- 
onciled to  living.  He  may  do  more  than  triumph  over 
his  abasements.  He  may  make  close  friendships  with 
them,  so  that  he  shall  part  from  them  with  sorrow 
when  he  is  called  to  go  to  the  right  hand  of  God  where 
there  is  no  more  abasement,  nothing  but  fulness 
forevermore. 


XI. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  CHURCH. 

Ourselves  your  servants  for  Jesus'  sake.  —  2  Cor.  iv.  5. 

The  Church  of  Christ  has  been  a  power  in  the  world 
for  many  years.  More  and  more  widely  it  has  spread, 
till  civilization  is  familiar  with  its  presence ;  and  over 
the  borders  of  civilization  it  has  run  with  its  mission- 
ary influence,  and  in  lands  which  once  were  civilized 
it  has  lingered  with  its  persistent  vitality,  so  that  to- 
day it  is  hard  to  find  any  country  which  is  the  home 
of  man  wherein  the  Christian  Church  has  not  laid  the 
corner-stones  of  its  truth  and  lifted  the  spire  of  its 
hope. 

It  is  possible  at  least  to  ascribe  to  the  intrinsic  vital- 
ity of  the  Church  some  of  those  features  of  her  history 
which  oftentimes  seem  strange.  That  she  should  have 
excited  violent  hatred  as  well  as  violent  love ;  that  she 
should  have  been  variously  conceived,  and  that  men 
should  have  quarrelled  over  their  various  conceptions  of 
her ;  that  she  should  have  actually  been  different  things 
at  different  times,  —  all  these  indisputable  facts  are 
what  might  naturally  have  been  looked  for  in  a  living 
system  made  of  living  men.  They  all  have  come.  They 
fill  the  Church's  history  with  life  and  movement.  They 
bring  her  ever  new,  though  ever  old  and  still  the  same, 

12 


178  The  Christian  (Jliurch. 

to  each  new  age.     They  make  the  question,  What  then 
is  the  Church  ?  a  question  always  fit  to  ask  and  answer. 

I  shall  not  try  to  ask  or  answer  it  to-day.  But  on 
this  morning  when  we  are  to  ask  you  for  your  offerings 
for  the  extension  of  the  Church's  work  and  life  in  our 
own  country,  — for  domestic  missions,  — I  should  like, 
as  it  has  been  my  custom,  to  draw  your  thoughts  to  one 
or  two  truths  about  the  Church  and  its  people  and  its 
ministry  which  are  very  simple,  but  which  I  am  not 
certain  that  we  always  carry  in  our  memories. 

We  go  back  to  the  New  Testament  for  the  beginnings 
of  the  Church ;  and,  when  we  once  are  there,  —  quite  on 
the  other  side  of  all  the  discussions  and  refinements 
which  have  come  in  through  all  the  Christian  ages,  —  it 
is  wonderful  how  simple  it  all  is.  Jesus  Christ  comes 
and  preaches  the  Gospel  of  the  Kingdom,  and  manifests 
the  life  of  God.  He  stands  with  His  shining  nature 
upon  the  hill  of  the  truth  He  has  to  preach.  He  is 
lifted  up,  by  and  by,  in  the  fulness  of  His  self-sacrifice 
upon  His  cross.  Toward  His  light,  soul  after  soul  is 
drawn  out  of  the  darkness.  Into  the  power  of  His  self- 
sacrifice  one  life  after  another  is  summoned  out  of  its 
discontent.  It  is  all  personal  and  individual  at  first. 
"  As  many  as  receive  Him  to  them  gives  He  power  to 
become  the  Sons  of  God. "  It  is  this  man  and  that  man 
that  is  summoned.  The  light  shines  through  this  win- 
dow and  finds  one  laborer  at  his  work.  It  smiles  in 
through  the  smoke  of  some  boisterous  revel  and  fills 
some  generous  heart  with  shame.  It  smiles  upon  some 
dreamer  and  turns  his  dream  into  a  purpose.  It  is  all 
personal  and  individual.     "Follow  me,"  "Follow  me," 


The  Christian  Church.  179 

and  Matthew  leaves  his  tax-table  standing  in  the  street ; 
and  the  sons  of  Zebedee  pull  hastily  in  over  the  blue 
water  to  give  themselves  to  the  Master,  who  has  called 
them  from  the  shore. 

And  what  came  next  ?  Why,  the  most  natural  thing 
in  all  the  world,  —  that  which  must  always  come  when 
single  men  believe  the  same  truth,  or  are  driven  on  by 
the  same  impulse.  When  did  a  host  of  scholars  ever 
sit  at  the  same  teacher's  feet  and  not  become  a  school  ? 
When  did  a  host  of  separate  soldiers  go  each  to  fight 
the  same  enemy  and  not  be  drawn  into  an  army  ?  When 
were  a  multitude  of  atoms  ever  filled  with  one  mag- 
netism and  not  brought  into  magnetic  communion  with 
each  other  ?  All  the  individual  believers  in,  and  fol- 
lowers of,  Christ  become  one  in  their  common  loyalty 
and  love.  And  so  out  of  the  crowd  of  disciples  comes 
the  Church. 

By  and  by  a  change  approaches.  The  fountain  out  of 
which  the  Church  life  visibly  has  sprung,  the  Master 
who  has  called  each  of  these  disciples  audibly  to  Him- 
self, is  just  about  to  vanish  from  their  sight.  He  is 
to  be  still  to  each  of  them,  and  to  each  of  those  who 
shall  come  after  them,  the  same  which  He  has  always 
been.  Still,  with  His  unseen  presence.  He  is  to  give 
His  separate  summons  to  every  soul.  The  unity  of  His 
believers  to  the  end  of  time  is  still  to  have  the  secret  of 
its  existence  in  the  personal  relation  between  each  of 
them  and  Him.  To  help  this  invisible  relation  to  real- 
ize itself  and  not  to  be  all  lost  in  the  unseen,  the  gra- 
cious kindness  of  the  Master  provides  two  symbols  which 
thenceforth  become  the  pledges  at  once  of  the  personal 


180  Tlie  Christian  Church. 

believer's  belonging  to  the  Lord,  and  of  the  belonging  of 
believers  to  each  other.  The  sacraments  are  set  like 
gems  to  hold  the  Church  into  its  precious  unity. 

Such  is  the  Church.  The  union  of  believers,  out- 
wardly manifested  by  the  sacraments,  but  having  its 
essence  in  the  personal  union  of  each  believer's  soul 
with  Christ.  I  see  the  gates  of  the  New  Testament 
open  outward.  That  life  which  had  been  taking  shape 
within  the  little  world  which  the  New  Testament  en- 
closed, goes  forth  so  quietly,  so  simply  to  meet  the 
larger  life  of  the  world !  It  is  Peter  coming  down  from 
the  house-top  to  go  to  Cornelius  at  Cesarea.  It  is 
Paul  crossing  over  from  Troas  into  Macedonia.  I  see 
the  history  which  has  come  since.  And  all  bears  testi- 
mony to  the  naturalness  of  the  New  Testament  process 
by  the  way  in  which  it  has  possessed  the  world.  This 
Jesus  must  be  a  true  Lord  of  men.  This  power  which 
draws  His  disciples  to  each  other  must  be  a  genuine 
power.  These  sacraments  must  be  intrinsically  natural 
utterances  of  what  they  try  to  express;  for,  lo,  every- 
where the  Church  has  built  itself!  In  every  age,  in 
every  land  she  stands,  her  single  life  pulsating  with 
the  multitudinous  life  of  which  she  is  composed,  the  ul- 
timate pulsation  coming  from  the  living  life  of  her 
Master,  to  which  every  particle  of  her  being  immediately 
responds;  the  two  jewels  on  her  breast-plate  burn- 
ing with  ever-deepening  and  accumulating  richness,  and 
making  together  the  clasp  which  holds  about  her  essen- 
tial nature  the  robe  of  her  outward  form. 

This  is  the  Christian  Church,  —  the  most  glorious 
because  the  most  natural,  the  most  natural  because  the 


The  Christian  Church.  181 

most  glorious,  of  all  the  associations  and  institutions 
of  mankind.  But  as  yet,  you  see,  we  have  not  spoken 
of  that  which  sometimes  seems  to  stand  forth  first  in 
people's  thinking  of  the  Church.  We  have  not  spoken 
of  the  ministry,  and  we  are  right.  The  Church  exists 
before  the  ministry.  Jesus  has  gathered  His  disciples. 
They  are  united  each  to  Him,  and  through  Him  they  are 
all  united  to  each  other ;  and  then,  one  day,  out  of  the 
group  of  those  disciples  He  chooses  twelve  whom  also 
He  calls  apostles.  They  are  disciples  first,  and  their 
discipleship  lies  behind  their  apostleship  until  the  end. 
Out  from  the  body  of  the  Church  rise  certain  men, 
called  by  the  Lord  to  whom  the  Church  belongs,  in 
whom  all  that  the  Church  means  shall  be  peculiarly 
represented,  who  shall  tell  its  story  to  the  world,  who 
shall  both  cultivate  and  manifest  its  life.  They  are  to 
build  the  Church,  and  to  declare  the  Church.  They 
are  not  to  rule  the  Church,  certainly  not  to  be  the 
Church.  That  is  what  has  taken  place  ever  since.  Out 
of  the  great  body  of  Christians  have  stood  forth  the 
Christian  leaders.  Now  with  one  sort  of  ordination, 
now  with  another ;  now  with  the  summons  of  the  people, 
now  with  the  irresistible  impulse  of  their  own  souls; 
now  with  the  direct  call  of  God  most  clear  and  plain, 
but  always,  if  they  were  truly  ministers  of  Christ, 
with  all  three  consenting  and  confederate  to  give  them 
their  position,  —  in  every  age,  in  every  land  there  have 
stood  forth  the  Church's  ministers  (true  successors  of 
the  first  apostles),  some  more  and  some  less  visibly 
united  to  those  earliest  ministers  by  their  forms  of 
faith  and   action;  but   all  successors   of  the  apostles 


182  The  Christian  Church. 

in  the  nature  and  the   spirit   of   the   work   they  had 
to  do. 

And  that  ministry,  what  was  it,  what  is  it,  to  the 
Church  ?  Is  it  the  Church's  master  ?  Is  it  the  sole 
and  solemn  channel  through  which  divine  truth  and  the 
divine  will  comes  to  the  waiting  hearts  which  could 
know  neither  but  for  it  ?  Is  it  the  stream  tlii'ough  which 
alone  grace  flows  out  of  the  Fountain  of  Grace,  which 
is  the  heart  of  God  ?  That  were  a  clear  idea,  a  most 
distinct  and  unmistakable  theory.  That  would  set  the 
people  following  wherever  the  ministry  chose  to  lead. 
That  would  reduce  all  duty  to  one  single  duty,  obedi- 
ence, perfect  obedience  to  the  spiritual  lord.  But  also 
that  would  either  deny  or  render  insignificant  the  very 
fact  from  which,  as  we  saw,  the  Church  took  its  exist- 
ence. That  fact  is  the  personal  communion  between 
each  believer  and  the  Christ.  That  fact  must  not  be 
tampered  with.  No  ministry  of  any  most  thoroughly 
ordained  apostle  must  relieve  the  individual  soul  of  its 
responsibility  or  rob  the  individual  soul  of  its  privilege 
of  immediate  search  after  the  truth,  immediate  submis- 
sion to  the  commandment  of  its  Lord.  What  then  ? 
There  is  only  one  other  place  for  the  ministry  to  hold. 
If  it  is  not  the  master  it  must  be  the  servant  of  the 
Church.  If  it  is  not  set  to  rule,  it  must  rejoice  to  obey ; 
to  know  the  Church  to  be  greater  than  it  and  not  its 
creature,  to  accept  it  as  its  highest  duty  to  help  the 
Church  to  realize  itself,  and  to  grow  into  the  full  power 
of  the  Divine  Life  of  which  it,  through  the  relation  be- 
tween Christ  and  the  souls  of  its  individual  members,  is 
perpetually  the  recipient. 


The  Christian  Church.  183 

Ruler  or  servant,  which  shall  it  he  ?  Strange  how 
from  the  first  the  very  name  by  which  the  successors  of 
the  apostles  have  been  called  has  seemed  to  answer  the 
question  for  itself.  They  have  been  ministers;  and 
"  ministers  "  means  "  servants. "  Strange  how  the  great- 
est of  them  all  at  the  beginning  took  pains  to  claim  the 
place  in  which  he  and  his  brethren  should  stand.  "  Not 
for  that  we  have  dominion  over  your  faith, "  cried  Paul,» 
"  but  we  are  partakers  of  your  joy. "  And  then  again  in 
those  great  words  which  I  have  made  my  text,  —  "  We 
preach  ourselves  your  servants  for  Jesus'  sake. "  Strange 
that,  with  words  like  these  written  in  the  very  forefront 
of  its  shining  history,  the  Church  should  have  so  loved 
the  other  notion  of  the  rulership  of  the  clergy,  the 
dominion  of  the  priest ;  and  hierarchies,  splendid  with 
pomp,  or  subtle  with  intrigue,  but  always  hard  with 
tyranny,  should  have  so  filled  the  story  of  the  Chris- 
tian ages. 

And  yet  not  strange !  Nothing  is  strange  whose  illus- 
trations occur  alike  in  every  region  of  human  life.  And 
where  is  the  department  of  living  in  which  servantship 
has  not  always  tried  to  turn  itself  into  rulership,  and 
had  with  long  delay  and  difficulty  to  be  brought  back  to 
the  higher  idea  of  servantship  again.  Certainly  it  is 
so  in  government.  What  is  the  world  learning  after 
all  these  years  except  that  the  governor  is  the  servant 
of  his  people  ?  After  centuries  of  tyranny  and  subject- 
ship,  —  centuries  in  which  the  people  seemed  to  exist 
only  by  the  ruler's  permission,  and  to  have  no  power  of 
originating  thought  and  action,  — everything  is  changed. 
In  all  of  civilized  Christendom  there  is  no   king  who 


184  The  Christian  Church. 

dares  to  claim  that  he  is  anything  but  the  people's 
servant,  that  his  power  came  from  them,  and  that  their 
will  must  lie  behind  his  everywhere. 

That  idea  of  servantship  has  never  been  so  absolutely 
lost  in  religion  as  it  has  in  politics ;  but  if  you  read  the 
story  of  five  centuries  ago,  or  if  you  see  the  visions  which 
floating  before  the  eyes  of  priests  have  been  incorpo- 
rated into  ecclesiastical  institutions,  you  will  become 
aware  of  how  the  other  idea,  —  the  idea  of  lordship,  — 
has  always  been  pressing  for  assertion.  Lord-Bishops 
and  Lord-Presbyters,  Church  Barons  and  Church 
Princes,  Popes,  Prelates,  Potentates,  —  they  all  bear 
witness  to  the  presence  of  a  theory  that  the  Church 
exists  first  in  the  clergy,  and  that  the  laity  become  part 
of  the  Church  only  by  the  extension  of  the  clergy's  life 
to  them.  Against  that  theory  stands  up  the  other :  that 
the  laity  are  the  Church,  and  that  the  clergy  exist  sep- 
arate from  them  only  to  carry  out  the  purposes  of  their 
life,  to  do  in  special  and  peculiar  ways  what  it  is  the 
duty  and  privilege  of  the  whole  Church  to  do,  —  in  one 
great  word  to  be  the  Church's  servants,  not  its  lords. 

There  is  indeed  one  word  in  our  own  church's  use 
which  seems  at  first  to  give  a  color  to  the  other  theory. 
The  minister  of  any  parish  is  called  its  "rector"  or 
its  "ruler."  And  no  doubt  much  of  the  direction  of 
the  parish's  affairs  is  given  to  his  hands.  What  is  his 
power  ?  I  take  it  to  be  very  much  like  that  which  the 
company  of  any  ship  intrusts  to  one  among  their  num- 
ber whom  they  make  their  steersman.  They  set  him  at 
the  helm ;  they  put  the  rudder  in  his  hands ;  they  bid 
him  watch  the  compass  and  the  stars,  —  but  it  is  all  a 


The  Christian  Church.  185 

delegation  of  their  power.  He  has  no  right  to  sail  the 
ship  to  any  other  than  the  port  they  wish  to  reach. 
They  really  steer  the  ship  in  him.  He  is  their  servant 
still,  obeying  the  commandment  which  they  gave  him 
when  they  said,  "  Guide  us  and  help  us  find  our  way. " 

But  then  the  question  comes  whether  with  such  an 
idea  of  the  ministry  as  this,  it  is  possible  to  think  of  it 
and  speak  of  it  as  a  divine  institution,  —  as  something 
instituted  and  ordained  by  God  Himself.  Why  not  ? 
It  all  depends  on  where  we  let  ourselves  get  into  the 
habit  of  looking  for  the  work  of  God  and  discovering 
the  operations  of  His  hands.  If  we  can  see  God  only 
in  movements  quite  outside  of  the  natural  proceedings 
of  humanity,  then  we  shall  hardly  think  of  any  minis- 
try as  being  divinely  ordered,  unless  it  come  down  to 
us  in  a  chariot  out  of  the  sky,  or  else  a  hand  be 
reached  forth  from  heaven  to  rest  upon  the  head  of  the 
selected  priest.  But  if  we  thoroughly  believe  that 
God's  activity  is  never  more  potent  than  when  His 
children,  full  of  the  love  and  fear  of  Him,  give  Him 
the  opportunity  to  work  through  them,  then  surely 
there  can  be  no  ordination  more  complete  or  solemn 
than  that  which  draws  forth  from  the  host  of  worship- 
ping and  working  Christians  here  one  and  there  another 
to  be  in  special  ways  that  which  they  all  are  in  the  es- 
sence of  their  Christianity ;  to  be,  as  Saint  Paul  says, 
"helpers  of  their  joy."  Do  you  or  I  believe  that  the 
President  of  the  United  States  is  less  divinely  called  to 
his  high  place  than  Henry  the  Eighth  or  Charles  the 
First  was  set  upon  the  throne  of  England.  And  yet  the 
president  is   the  people's  servant,   and  the  kings  were 


186  The  Christian  Church. 

tyrants.  When  from  the  depths  of  any  nation's  life 
there  stirs  a  consciousness  of  need  which  finally  by  a 
deliberate  choice  calls  forth  one  man  and  says  to  him, 
"  Be  our  guide, "  and  he  obeys,  I  know  not  where  to  find 
a  more  true  utterance  of  God's  will  than  that. 

The  very  methods  of  the  early  Christian  life  sound 
crude  to-day.  We  read  the  story  of  how  they  chose 
Matthias  by  lot  to  fill  the  place  of  Judas.  We  hear 
their  prayer  to  God  that  He  will  guide  the  drawing  of 
the  numbered  disk.  We  watch  them  as  they  stand 
around  with  serious  exalted  faces  waiting  the  result. 
It  is  all  true,  inspiring,  and  impressive ;  but  what  is  it 
compared  with  the  movement  of  God's  spirit  through  a 
church,  bidding  it  summon  this  or  that  earnest  soul  to 
help  it  and  to  show  it  of  His  love.  A  group  of  Chris- 
tian hearts  is  a  nobler  and  more  sensitive  medium  for 
God  to  speak  through  than  a  handful  of  pebbles  in  an 
urn.  God  may  speak  through  either ;  surely  the  Voice 
through  the  sacred,  the  divine  medium  of  Man  will  be 
the  more  sacred,  the  more  divine. 

There  are  three  possible  calls  to  every  minister,  — 
the  call  of  God,  the  call  of  his  own  nature,  and  the  call 
of  needy  men.  May  not  one  almost  say  that  no  man 
has  a  right  to  think  himself  a  minister  who  does  not 
hear  all  three  vocations  blending  into  one  and  marking 
out  his  path  to  walk  in  past  all  doubt.  And  these 
three  come  to  perfect  union  in  the  soul  of  him  who 
hears  the  Father  call  one  of  His  children  to  serve  the 
rest  in  those  great  necessities  which  belong  to  them 
all. 

And  if  we  ask  not  simply  about  the  sacredness  of  the 


Tlie  Christian  Church.  187 

ordination,  but  about  the  inspiration  that  goes  with  it. 
the  answer  is  no  less  clear.  Which  will  inspire  a  man 
most,  which  will  carry  him  most  buoyantly  through  a 
long  life  of  labor,  making  the  last  years  more  eager  and 
exhilarating  than  the  first,  the  joy  of  ruling  men  or  the 
joy  of  serving  men  ?  He  little  knows  what  human  na- 
ture is  who  hesitates  about  his  answer.  You  may  in- 
deed feel  the  identity  between  the  two.  You  may  see 
how  each,  realized  at  its  fullest,  becomes  the  other; 
how  he  who  rules  men  most  wisely,  serves  them  most 
humbly ;  and  he  who  serves  men  most  efficiently,  rules 
them  most  powerfully ;  but  taking  them  in  their  ordi- 
nary distinction  from  each  other,  it  is  a  nobler  relation 
to  a  man  to  serve  him  than  it  is  to  rule  him.  Ruler- 
ship  stifles  and  hardens  the  nature  which  it  deals  with. 
Servantship  opens  and  softens  it.  Rulership  is  unsym- 
pathetic. Servantship  is  full  of  sympathy.  Rulership 
is  monotonous  and  works  by  law.  Servantship  is  in- 
genious and  various  and  free.  Rulership  is  self-con- 
scious. Servantship  is  self -forgetful.  The  ruler  grows 
tired  on  his  throne.  The  servant  sees  his  working- 
room  always  alive  with  desire  and  need. 

One  sees  the  young  men  pressing  in  at  the  gates  of 
life,  eagerly  asking  what  there  is  to  do  in  this  great, 
busy  world,  and  he  longs  to  hold  out  to  them  the  privi- 
lege of  the  Christian  ministry.  I  see  the  young  men  of 
this  congregation ;  I  have  seen  them  for  almost  twenty 
years.  I  have  watched  some  of  them  as  they  have 
taken  their  places  as  ministers,  and  are  doing  the  Gos- 
pel work.  I  have  seen  the  great  host  of  them  going 
other  ways.     I  see  the  great  host  of  them  goring  other 


188  The  Christian  Church. 

ways  to-day.  They  turn  to  honest,  useful,  interesting 
work  on  every  side.  I  rejoice  in  all  that  they  are  do- 
ing and  will  do,  but  all  the  time  I  ask  myself,  "  Why 
is  it  that  they  do  not  more  largely  seek  the  ministry  of 
Christ  ?  "  I  would  that  I  could  put  the  privilege  of  that 
ministry  before  them  as  it  seems  to  us  who  have  long 
lived  in  it.  I  wish  that  some  one  here  this  morning 
might  so  see  it  that  it  might  win  his  life.  I  believe  so 
fully  that  the  Christian  ministry  in  the  next  fifty  years 
is  to  have  a  nobler  opportunity  of  usefulness  and  power 
than  it  has  ever  had  in  the  past,  that  I  would  gladly 
call,  if  I  could,  with  the  voice  of  a  trumpet  to  the 
brave,  earnest,  cultivated  young  men  who  are  to  live  in 
the  next  fifty  years  to  enter  into  it,  and  share  the  privi- 
lege of  that  work  together. 

And  the  word  with  which  I  would  summon  them 
should  be  that  great  word  "  service. "  "  Whosoever  will 
be  chief  among  you,  let  him  be  your  servant,"  Jesus 
said.  It  was  an  announcement,  not  of  mortification, 
but  of  satisfaction.  It  was  not  saying,  "  You  must  dis- 
appoint your  desire,"  but  "You  must  fulfil  it."  The 
fulfilment  of  life  is  service.  And  then  He  stretched  out 
His  arms,  and  with  that  self-assertion  which  no  other 
son  of  man  has  ever  dared  to  make.  He  bade  them  see 
the  illustration  of  what  He  had  just  told  them  in  Him- 
self. "  Even  as  the  Son  of  Man  came  not  to  be  minis- 
tered unto  but  to  minister,"  He  said. 

The  man  who  ministers,  the  man  who  is  a  minister, 
-^  that  is,  a  servant,  —  enters  into  the  company  of 
Jesus.  He  lives  with  Him  who  gave  His  life  for  men, 
and  in  so  doing,  lived  supremely.     He  undertakes  the 


The  Christian  Church.  189 

sympathetic  study  of  humanity  in  every  part.  He 
clothes  his  life  with  honor  for  human  nature.  He  be- 
lieves in  man  as  clogged,  hindered,  and  broken,  but  as 
capable  of  purification  and  rectification  by  the  power  of 
God  which  he  may  help  to  bring  into  exercise  upon  it ; 
and  so  he  undertakes  his  service.  Is  there  any  theory  of 
rulership  which  can  compare  with  that  for  the  exhila- 
ration and  elevation  of  a  devoted  man  ? 

But  the  ministry  does  not  exist  for  the  good  of  the 
ministers,  but  for  the  good  of  the  people ;  and  so  it  is 
necessary  —  before  we  are  sure  that  any  conception  of 
the  ministry  is  thoroughly  good  and  true  —  that  we 
should  see  if  that  theory  will  help  the  people  to  their 
best  life.  What  then  will  be  the  effect  upon  the  people 
of  being  taught  that  their  ministers  are  indeed  their 
ministers,  their  servants  ?  There  is  one  effect  which  it 
might  produce  which  would  indeed  be  a  blessing.  It 
might  make  the  people  feel  and  accept  their  true  re- 
sponsibility. If  they  are  indeed  the  Church,  charged 
with  its  interests,  with  its  progress  dependent  upon 
them,  they  must  be  full  of  thought  and  care  and  study. 
They  must  know  how  their  charge  is  faring.  Their 
eyes  must  be  here  at  home  and  at  the  ends  of  the  earth 
at  the  same  time.  They  are  the  Church,  and  its  dis- 
grace or  honor,    its  success  or  failure,   is  theirs. 

There  have  been  great  times,  some  far  back  in  the 
early  history,  some  in  the  modern  days,  in  which  the 
whole  body  of  the  Church  has  seemed  in  large  degree 
ready  to  claim  its  privilege.  The  problems  of  religion 
have  seemed  to  be  all  men's  problems.  The  worship  of 
the  House  of  God  has  seemed  to  be  all   men's  care. 


190  Tlie  Christian  Church. 

tn  I , 

The  extension  of  the  truth,  the  spread  of  missions, 
has  enlisted  all  men's  anxiety  and  ingenuity.  At 
those  times  the  ministers  have  seemed  really  to  be  what 
they  ought  to  be,  not  strange,  foreign  beings  dropped 
down  from  the  skies,  or  blown  into  a  region  with  which 
they  had  no  affinity  out  of  some  wholly  alien  world. 
They  have  been  part  and  parcel  of  the  life  from  which 
they  sprang,  and  which  always  lay  behind  them  and  fed 
them  with  its  strength.  They  were  the  leaders  of  the 
people  only  as  the  first  curling  wave  which  runs  up 
farthest  on  the  beach  is  the  leader  of  the  great  world  of 
waves  which  stretches  out  behind  it,  all  crowding  for- 
ward, all  uttering  its  shoreward  impulse  in  the  servant- 
wave  which  bears  its  banner,  and  tells  of  its  desire. 

The  Church  —  our  church  like  all  the  rest  —  falls  too 
far  short  of  this  idea.  It  is  too  much  a  clergyman's 
church.  The  people  sit  too  much  and  say,  "Tell  us 
what  we  shall  think,"  instead  of  turning  their  own 
thoughts  to  the  most  sac'ocl  things,  and  by  and  by  being 
able  to  say,  "We  think  this;  help  us,  0  servants  and 
friends  of  ours,  to  see  if  it  be  true. "  The  people  sit  too 
much  and  say,  "  Tell  us  what  to  do, "  instead  of  coming 
with  their  hands  full  of  plans,  saying,  "  This  needs  to 
be  done.  Do  it,  0  servants  and  friends  of  ours,  and  we 
will  supply  you  with  all  the  means  and  help  you  need. 
It  is  our  work. " 

Do  you  not  feel,  even  as  I  speak,  what  a  breadth  and 
freshness  and  freedom  and  variety  and  vitality  would 
come  into  the  Church's  thought  and  working  if  the 
Church  itself  —  which  is  the  people,  not  the  clergy  — 
really  did  think  and  work,   and  with  a  true  sense  of 


The  Christian  Church.  191 

responsibility  and  a  true  initiative  impulse  accepted 
the  privilege  of  their  commission  ? 

Sometimes  we  hear  our  American  system  of  Church 
management  abused  and  even  ridiculed.  And  no  doubt 
it  is  liable  to  manifest  theoretical  objections.  It  is 
capable  of  being  made  to  seem  very  absurd  that  a  con- 
gregation should  ask  a  man  to  come  and  be  their 
teacher,  but  insist  that  they  will  only  ask  him  with 
the  understanding  that  he  believes  what  they  believe, 
and  that  if  he  comes  to  believe  otherwise  than  they 
do,  he  will  go  away  and  teach  them  no  longer.  Such 
theoretical  objections  are  easy  to  draw  up  in  telling 
shape,  but  they  amount  to  very  little.  They  are  of  no 
consequence  whatever  compared  with  that,  the  real 
fact  of  value  about  our  system,  —  which  is,  that  the 
people  are,  at  least  declaredly,  the  living  and  effective 
body  of  the  Church.  The  power  and  the  responsibility 
reside  in  them.  They  have  the  real  apostolical  succes- 
sion. Only  this  certainly  is  true,  —  that,  with  a  sys- 
tem at  whose  heart  is  such  a  truth,  we  are  bound  to 
carry  that  truth  out  into  activity  with  vastly  more 
completeness  than  we  do  now.  It  will  not  do  for  the 
people  to  hold  the  power  and  try  to  give  the  re- 
sponsibility away.  Power  and  responsibility  must  go 
together.  If  the  Church,  as  it  ought,  counts  the  minis- 
ters its  servants,  it  must  assume  the  deeper  and  higher 
and  more  exigent  prerogatives  of  mastery,  and  think 
and  study  and  believe  and  act  with  the  energy  and 
earnestness  of  a  true  Church  of  God. 

There  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  the  people  in  all 
the  churches -— and  in  our  church  as  well  as  all  the 


192  The  Christian  Church. 

others  —  show  signs  to-day  that  they  will  recognize  and 
claim  their  place.  There  is  more  general  thought 
about  religious  truth.  There  is  more  spontaneous  ac- 
tivity in  Christian  work.  Men  come  into  the  Church's 
communion  less  and  less  from  mere  drift  and  habit, 
more  and  more  with  serious  question  about  what  it 
means.  If  the  clergyman  is  less  reverenced  as  an  auto- 
crat and  less  consulted  as  an  oracle,  he  is  more  used  as 
a  willing  servant,  and  more  valued  as  a  faithful  friend. 

For  you  will  freely  understand  how,  in  all  that  I  have 
said  this  morning,  the  word  "servant"  must  be  com- 
pletely stripped  of  a  great  deal  of  base  association  be- 
fore it  can  be  put  to  the  high  use  which  I  have  claimed 
for  it.  It  must  be  not  contradictory  to,  but  identical 
with,  the  other  word  which  I  have  just  linked  to  it, 
the  word  "  friend. "  "  Servus  Servorum  Dei, "  —  the  ser- 
vant of  the  servants  of  God,  —  so  the  most  gorgeous  of 
ecclesiastical  princes  has  called  himself,  reverting  ever 
to  the  first  and  truest  thought  of  what  he  is.  And  yet 
"Amicus  Amicorum  Dei,"  —  friend  of  the  friends  of 
God,  —  surely  that  too  must  be  his  name.  All  hard- 
ness, all  reluctance,  all  tyranny  on  the  one  side,  and  all 
obsequiency  on  the  other  side,  must  pass  away.  And 
then  in  an  atmosphere  of  mutual  service  —  which  is  also 
an  atmosphere  of  mutual  love  —  the  lives  of  minister 
and  people  must  give  themselves  each  to  the  other,  and 
both  to  the  work  of  Christ  and  of  His  Church. 

The  Church  of  the  Millennial  days  shall  be  nothing 
less,  nothing  else  than  a  regenerated  and  complete  hu- 
manity. There  all  shall  be  ministers,  for  all  shall  be 
servants.     All  shall  be  people,  for  all  shall  be  served. 


The  Christian  Church.  193 

In  these  imperfect  days  let  us  watch  and  wait  for  those 
days  of  perfectness.  Let  us  do  all  we  can  to  help 
their  coming.  Let  us  count  no  condition  final  till 
they  come.  Let  us  live  in,  and  live  for,  and  never  de- 
spair of,  the  ever-advancing,  ever-enlarging  Church  of 
Christ. 


XII. 
THE  OPENING  OF  THE  EYES. 

Jesns  said  unto  him,  Dost  thou  believe  on  the  Son  of  God  ?  He  an. 
swered  and  said,  Who  is  He,  Lord,  that  I  might  believe  on  Him  ?  And 
Jesus  said  unto  him,  Thou  hast  both  seen  Him,  and  it  is  He  that  talketh 
with  thee.  And  he  said,  Lord,  I  believe,  and  he  worshipped  Him.  — 
John  ix.  35-38. 

There  is  always  a  deep  fascination  for  us  in  seeing 
exactly  how  another  person's  mind  works.  Some  peo- 
ple are  very  attractive  simply  from  a  transparency 
which  lets  us  look  in  perfectly  upon  their  mental  move- 
ments and  see  just  how  all  their  processes  work  out 
their  conclusions,  even  if  there  is  nothing  remarkable 
in  the  processes  themselves.  And  even  with  the  other 
kind  of  attraction  which  belongs  to  very  difficult  and 
reserved  people,  whose  mental  action  it  is  hard  to 
follow,  the  secret  of  it  is  still  the  same ;  for  what  draws 
us  to  them  is  merely  the  desire  to  do  what  seems  so 
hard,  to  catch  some  sound  of  the  machinery  which  they 
conceal  so  well,  and  guess  how  it  is  working.  We  are 
unable  to  accept  any  result  without  supposing  a  process 
behind  it. 

In  all  the  outward  works  of  men,  in  all  that  their 
bodies  do,  we  see  the  process  perfectly,  and  trace  it 
perfectly  to  the  result,  and  all  is  very  satisfactory. 
We  see  the  mason  lay  every  brick,  and  so  the  house 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  195 

when  it  is  done  is  perfectly  accountable.  At  the  other 
extreme  all  the  highest  workings,  all  God's  workings, 
we  cannot  trace.  Results  stand  out  alone.  There  we 
have  miracles.  Between  the  two,  half -hidden,  half-dis- 
coverable, always  tempting  us  to  discover  more,  there 
are  men's  mental  movements.  Some  part  they  will  not 
tell  us,  other  parts  they  cannot.  We  watch  the  pro- 
cesses by  which  our  neighbors  come  to  their  conclu- 
sions ;  and  they  elude  us  like  a  stream  that  goes  sliding 
along  through  thickets,  only  occasionally  glistening  out 
into  a  patch  of  sun-lit  water,  just  frequent  enough  to  let 
us  keep  the  general  bearing  of  its  course.  How  Moses 
came  to  undertake  the  leadership  of  Israel,  how  David 
was  led  to  offer  himself  against  the  giant,  how  Caesar 
came  to  cross  the  Rubicon,  what  made  my  friend  give  up 
his  promising  career  and  go  into  the  army  for  his  coun- 
try, —  I  can  see  just  enough  of  these  to  give  me  interest 
in  them,  an  interest,  that  is,  a  real  place  inside  such 
questions,  just  enough  to  tempt  me  always  with  the 
desire  to  know  more.  The  way  in  which  the  workings 
of  God's  mind  are  always  represented  to  us  in  the  Bible 
under  the  most  familiar  human  representations, — re- 
pentance, jealousy,  anger,  patience,  —  those  affections 
which  must  be  so  different  from  anything  we  can  con- 
ceive of  in  their  mightiness  and  their  purity  being 
identified  with  and  expressed  by  the  feeble  human 
echoes  of  them  of  which  we  do  know  something,  —  this 
is  the  Bible's  effort  to  give  men  the  same  interest  in 
the  thoughts  of  God  which  they  have  in  the  thoughts  of 
one  another.  It  is  a  part  of  the  same  effort  of  which 
the  Incarnation  was  the  sum  and  crown. 


196  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes. 

The  book  or  story  or  lecture  which  by  sympathetic 
insight  lets  us  have  this  interesting  view  of  how  some 
mind  is  working,  is  always  popular.  If  any  one  could 
perfectly  describe  how  the  poorest  man  in  town  came  to 
do  the  simplest  of  his  duties,  if  he  could  show  how  every 
wheel  of  motive  was  toothed  and  fitted  into  its  task, 
and  make  it  perfectly  clear  how  each  step  led  to  every 
next  one,  he  would  fascinate  any  audience  that  listened 
to  him.  The  books  that  do  it  most  completely  are  not 
the  subtle  books  of  casuistry  which  set  out  to  do  it, 
but  the  simplest  and  most  earnest  books,  —  those  which 
deal  with  men  in  their  most  earnest,  which  are  always 
their  simplest,  moments.  This  description  applies 
above  all  books  to  the  Bible,  and  the  Bible  people  do 
open  their  mental  movements  to  us  with  a  clearness 
which  no  other  series  of  characters  can  rival.  We  see 
their  thoughts  grow ;  and  we  see  more  than  we  usually 
can  of  how  the  thought  involves  and  necessitates  the 
action.  This  is  a  large  part  of  the  charm  of  the  Bible 
for  those  who  have  no  deepest  personal  religious 
interest  in  it. 

There  is  an  illustration  of  this  in  the  story  from 
which  I  take  this  evening's  text.  Jesus  had  given  a 
blind  man  his  sight.  The  Pharisee,  associating  the 
man  with  his  Restorer,  had  made  a  captious  quarrel 
with  him,  and  finally  excommunicated  him.  Jesus 
meets  him,  and  it  ends  by  his  becoming  the  worship- 
ping disciple  of  the  Master.  Here  was  a  great  change, 
and  yet  the  whole  story  of  it  is  told  in  one  chapter. 
Everybody  who  reads  the  chapter  feels  that  he  knows 
the   whole,   understands   just  how  the   man  became  a 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  197 

Christian.  It  would  not  be  possible  to  find  a  story 
through  which  you  could  more  clearly  trace  the  flow  of 
a  simple,  candid  mind  from  motive  to  conviction,  from 
fountain  to  ocean,  than  we  can  this  man's. 

If  we  can  understand  it  so  clearly,  it  must  throw 
some  light  upon  other  religious  experiences,  —  upon  the 
ways  in  which  some  other  men  come  to  Christ, —  which 
are  not  so  clear ;  and  this  is  why  I  want  to  make  it  the 
basis  of  a  few  words  to-night.  What  I  have  to  say 
will  belong  in  part  to  each  of  the  three  speeches  in  the 
short  dialogue  which  I  read  for  the  text:  "Dost  thou 
believe  on  the  Son  of  God  ? "  "  Who  is  He,  that  I 
might  believe  on  Him  ?  "  "  Thou  hast  both  seen  Him, 
and  it  is  He  that  talketh  with  thee."  Then  he  wor- 
shipped Him. 

Jesus  said  to  him,  Dost  thou  believe  on  the  Son  of 
God  ?  Consider  the  man's  position.  He  had  been 
blind  all  his  life;  he  was  blind  that  morning;  now, 
at  night,  he  saw.  The  wonderful  beauty  of  the  world 
had  burst  upon  him.  The  greatest  luxury  of  sense  that 
man  enjoys  was  his,  and  he  was  revelling  in  its  new- 
found enjoyment.  And  he  was  intensely  grateful  to 
the  friend  who  had  given  it  to  him.  He  loved  Him 
and  thanked  Him  with  his  whole  heart.  And  the 
blessing  had  cost  him  something,  and  was  all  the  dearer 
for  that.  It  had  cost  him  his  hereditary  position  in 
the  national  synagogue.  One  must  almost  be  a  Jew  to 
know  what  a  sacrifice  it  was  to  give  that  up;  but  he 
had  been  very  brave  and  generous  about  it.  He  had 
stood  by  his  benefactor.  When  they  wanted  to  make 
him  insult  Jesus  he  had  honored  Him ;  and  now  when 


198  Tlie  Opming  of  the  Eyes. 

he  saw  Him  coming,  his  whole  heart  leaped  up  with  joy. 
All  that  he  had  suffered  seemed  as  nothing.  Here  was 
his  wonderful  friend,  and  he  could  thank  Him  once 
again.  He  had  found  Him.  He  saw  Him  with  the 
new,  strange,  beautiful  sight  which  He  Himself  had 
given.  And  just  then  Jesus  steps  in  and  questions 
him ;  not,  "  Are  you  glad  and  grateful  ?  "  but  "  Dost 
thou  believe  on  the  Son  of  God  ?  "  It  is  a  new  thought,  y 
a  new  view  altogether.  We  can  almost  see  the  sur- 
prise and  bewilderment  creep  over  his  glad  face.  He 
had  been  hurrying  to  thank  a  friend,  and  here  he  was 
stopped  and  thrown  back  to  think  and  answer  whether 
he  "  believed  on  the  Son  of  God. " 

"The  Son  of  God."  The  name  was  not  wholly 
strange  to  him.  It  had  lurked  throughout  his  well- 
learned  national  history.  Angels  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment had  been  called  God's  sons.  Sometimes  great, 
pure,  and  holy  men  had  recognized  their  sonship  to  di- 
vinity, or  had  it  recognized  by  others.  That  there  was 
a  God,  and  that  they  were  His  children,  bearing  some 
part  of  His  nature,  and  loved  with  His  fatherly  tender- 
ness, —  all  this  he  knew  something  about ;  but  "  The 
Son  of  God,"  —  one  in  whom  the  hints  and  best  prom- 
ises of  all  these  others  were  fulfilled,  one  who  really 
brought  the  Deity  with  Him  and  stood  as  Mediator 
between  the  Father  and  the  sons  everywhere,  between 
the  beneficent  divine  and  the  needy  human,  —  this 
bewildered  him.  It  may  have  fascinated  him,  and 
filled  him  with  that  strange  sort  of  longing  which  we 
all  have  after  our  highest  dreams  of  whose  reality  we 
have  no  proof  except  the  intensity  with  which  we  wish 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  199 

that  they  were  true.  It  may  have  fascinated  him,  but 
it  bewildered  him  first.  It  was  not  what  he  had  ex- 
pected. The  ground  where  he  had  thought  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  his  little  monument  of  gratitude  had 
opened  to  infinite  depths,  and  he  must  build  so  much 
deeper  than  he  had  thought.  He  had  it  on  his  lips  to  . 
thank  his  friend,  and  lo !  suddenly  he  was  dealing  with 
God  and  with  the  infinite  relations  between  God  and 
man. 

It  is  a  bewilderment  which  is  always  ready  to  fall, 
which  often  does  fall,  upon  the  superficialness  of  our 
ordinary  life.  ^  There  are  always  deep  truths  ready  to 
open  beneath  us,  and  great  unifying  truths  which  are 
always  waiting  to  close  around  and  bind  into  a  sur- 
prising unity  the  fragmentary  lives  we  live.  For  we 
certainly  do  live  very  much  in  fragments.  Our  special 
blessings  stand  isolated,  and  are  not  grasped  and  gath- 
ered into  one  great  pervading  consciousness  of  a  blessed 
life,  —  of  a  life  brooded  over  and  cared  for  and  trained 
by  God  the  Blesser.  Health  is  a  joy  of  the  senses, 
a  delight  of  full  red  blood  and  strong  springy  mus- 
cles, and  a  skin  that  tingles  with  joy  in  the  cold  or 
basks  with  joy  in  the  sunshine.  It  has  no  strong,  suffi- 
cient purpose.  We  are  well  and  strong  for  nothing. 
Talent,  skill,  culture,  do  their  little  separate  works. 
They  have  hardly  more,  in  some  ways  they  have  less, 
associations  in  the  unity  of  a  plan  of  life  than  the  in- 
stincts of  the  brutes.  One  paints  his  picture,  another 
builds  his  house,  another  wins  his  fortune,  and  each 
achievement  stands  by  itself  and  leaves  the  bystander 
asking,  or  at  least  sets  the  worker  himself  to  asking,  a« 


200  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes. 

he  looks  back  on  his  life,  "  Well,  what  of  it  ?  "  Power, 
as  men  get  it  and  use  it,  is  like  the  play  of  a  crowd  of 
children  turned  into  a  great  factory  and  amusing  them- 
selves by  whirling  one  this  wheel,  and  one  the  other, 
with  no  single  purpose  controlling  and  no  single  result 
issuing  from  the  whole.  One  rules  his  senate  and  an- 
other his  society  and  another  his  family  and  another  his 
club  and,  with  all  the  power  everywhere  lavished,  the 
whole  goes  largely  unruled.  Is  not  this  the  trouble  ? 
We  live  in  such  small  detail.  The  world  unfolds  its 
riches  more  and  more.  We  are  turned  loose  among 
them.  Blessing  —  opportunity,  which  is  the  great 
blessing  —  opens  around  us  on  every  side;  but  in  the 
midst  of  it  all  we  seem  to  live  such  a  baby-life.  We 
are  so  like  children  in  their  nurseries,  who  know  every 
toy  and  bit  of  furniture  perfectly,  but  know  no  whole, 
—  have  no  conception  of  the  purpose  of  the  nursery 
and  its  meaning.  There  are  high  impulses  enough; 
there  are  patriotism  and  courage;  men  will  die  for 
friends  and  country,  —  but  it  all  lacks  spiritual  unity. 
Where  is  the  centre  of  it  all  ? 

Take  any  life.  A  boy  has  his  dozen  years  of  full 
boy's  pleasure,  and  every  day's  enjoyment  is  a  sort  of 
rude,  healthy,  barbaric  hymn  of  how  good  it  is  to  live. 
Then  comes  the  young  man's  education,  and  that  is 
good  too,  subtler,  finer,  more  conscious,  sweeter.  Then 
comes  manhood  with  its  happy  cares  and  incitements. 
That  is  good  too.  Business,  public  spirit,  family  life, 
■ — the  great  sum-total  of  all  is  a  sense  of  gladness;  but 
how  blind  it  is,  how  it  eddies  in  circles  which  come 
back  on  themselves,  how  it  seems  to  lack  drift  and  ten- 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  201 

dency  and  direction.  How  hard  it  is  to  think  of  it  all 
as  having  been  launched  from  the  hand  of  any  deliber- 
ate design,  or  as  having  an  appointed  end  in  any  defi- 
nite result.  How  easy  it  is  to  sit  down  by  the  side  of 
the  very  richest  and  fullest  and  most  successful  life  we 
ever  knew,  and  in  certain  moods  find  ourselves  saying  of 
it,  "  Well,  what  of  it  after  all  ?  "  That  is  not  the  great 
first  feeling  to  be  sure.  The  first  feeling  is  a  pure  de- 
light and  thankfulness  for  our  existence  and  its  blessed- 
ness, even  fragmentarily  as  we  conceive  of  them ;  but, 
because  we  do  conceive  of  them  fragmentarily,  that 
other  feeling  is  always  lurking  underneath  and  any  lit- 
tle convulsion  may  throw  it  any  moment  to  the  top. 

What  can  save  us  ?  Suppose  this.  Suppose  that. 
Meaning  to  thank  God  for  the  fulness  of  your  life,  —  for 
health,  wealth,  power,  for  love,  for  friendship,  for  all 
this  beautiful  world  with  all  that  it  is  full  of,  — you  are 
suddenly  met  with  this  question,  "  Dost  thou  believe  on 
the  Son  of  God  ? "  At  first  it  seems  so  unmeaning. 
What  does  it  mean  ?  It  means  this :  Are  you  glad  and 
grateful  for  these  things  as  little  separate  sensations 
of  pleasure  ?  That  amounts  to  nothing.  Or  are  you 
thankful  for  them  as  manifestations  of  the  divine  life 
to  yours,  as  tokens  of  that  fatherhood  of  God  which 
found  its  great  utterance,  including  all  others,  in  the 
Incarnation  of  His  Son  ?  That  is  everything.  No 
wonder  that  such  a  question  brings  surprise.  It  is  so 
much  more  than  you  expected.  It  is  like  the  poor  Nea- 
politan peasant  who  struck  his  spade  into  the  soil  to  dig 
a  well,  and  the  spade  went  through  into  free  space  and 
he  had  discovered  all  the  hidden  wealth   of  Hercula- 


202  The  Opening  of  th&  Eyes. 

neuin.  No  wonder  there  is  surprise  at  first ;  but  after- 
ward you  see  that  in  the  belief  in  a  manifested  Son  of 
God,  if  you  could  gain  it,  you  would  have  just  the  prin- 
ciple of  spiritual  unity  in  which  your  life  is  wanting, 
and  the  lack  of  which  makes  so  much  of  its  very  best  so 
valueless.  If  you  could  believe  in  one  great  utterance 
of  God,  one  incarnate  word,  the  manifested  pity  of 
God,  and  the  illustrated  possibility  of  man  at  once,  — 
then,  with  such  a  central  point,  there  could  be  no 
more  fragmentariness  anywhere.  All  must  fall  into 
its  relation  to  it,  to  Him,  and  so  the  unity  of  life  show 
forth.  Blessings  of  every  sort  are  reflections  of  that 
great  blessing.  Powers  of  every  sort  are  glimpses  of 
that  possible  manhood  which  was  manifest  in  Him. 
Love  of  every  kind  is  God's  love.  The  centre  once  set, 
the  circle  builds  itself.  The  manifestation  of  the  Son 
of  God,  of  Christ,  gives  all  other  blessings  a  place  and 
meaning,  just  as  the  sun  in  heaven  accounts  for  and  res- 
cues from  fragmentariness  every  little  light  of  the  innu- 
merable host  which,  in  every  hue  and  brilliancy,  sparkle 
and  flash  and  glow  from  every  point  of  our  sun-lit 
world. 

This  is  the  importance  of  the  question.  "True,"  you 
say,  "  but  the  eye  may  enjoy  the  sparkle  of  a  diamond 
or  the  color  of  a  rose  even  if  it  does  not  know  that  both 
are  borrowed  from  the  sun  and  belong  to  it ;  and  so  one 
may  delight  in  many  a  joy  of  life  without  any  conscious 
reference  of  it  to  that  spiritual  purpose  of  it  all  which 
Christ  illustrated. "  I  know  he  may ;  but  on  the  whole 
that  wearying  sense  of  a  lack  of  unity  and  purpose  must 
come  in ;  and  the  pleasure  and  the  culture  which  come 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  203 

by  spiritual  treatments  unconsciously  experienced  are 
always  deepened  and  richened  when  one  consciously  and 
cordially  submits  to  a  training  that  is  clearly  understood. 

Superficialness  and  fragmentariness  go  together.  The 
more  profoundly  you  get  into  the  heart  of  things  the 
more  simple  they  become,  and  the  more  their  unity 
comes  out.  This  question,  then,  is  a  demand  for  more 
profoundness,  and  appeals  from  the  surface  to  the  heart 
of  things. 

If  one  could  get  the  ear  of  modern  enterprise  and 
progress,  what  question  would  he  want  to  ask  of  this 
wonderful  giant  that  is  conquering  the  earth  ?  What 
but  this  ?  "  Dost  thou  believe  in  the  Son  of  God  ?  " 
Ask  it  of  the  business  that  fills  our  streets,  of  the  science 
that  discovers,  of  the  philosophy  that  thinks,  of  the  labor 
that  creates,  of  the  invention  that  devises.  Ask  it  of 
education  which  is  the  atmosphere,  and  politics  which 
is  the  electricity,  and  home-life  which  is  the  sunshine 
of  the  days  men  live.  Ask  it  of  art,  ask  it  of  philan- 
thropy; ask  it  at  the  doors  of  schools  and  counting- 
rooms  and  state-houses  and  city  halls  and  museums 
and  homes.  "  Dost  thou  believe  in  the  Son  of  God  ?  " 
Have  you  faith  in  a  spiritual  purpose  behind,  under, 
through  and  through  all  that  you  are  doing,  —  the  soul 
by  which  it  lives  ?  Do  you  believe  in  and  are  you  in- 
spired by  a  pure,  clear  faith  in  God's  love  and  in  man's 
destiny  as  all  gathered  and  summed  up  in  the  redemp- 
tion of  the  God-Man,  Jesus  Christ?  "Dost  thou  be- 
lieve in  the  Son  of  God  ?  "  A  strange  question  for  such 
places;  but  if  they  could  answer  it,  what  a  new  life 
would  be  in  them  all ! 


204  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes, 

And  then  if  we  could  ask  the  question  of  separate 
men  in  their  separate  lives.  Your  blessings  are  heaped 
up ;  your  powers  tempt  and  fascinate  you ;  your  associ- 
ations are  so  many  fountains,  each  pouring  in  its  spe- 
cial joy  upon  your  soul,  —  tell  me,  do  you  believe  in  the 
Soii  of  God  ?  Do  not  turn  away  and  say  the  question  is 
impertinent,  that  it  means  nothing  to  you.  It  means 
this.  Is  there  any  controlling  present  sense  of  a  mani- 
fested and  ever-manifesting  God  that  gives  a  unity  to 
your  family,  your  occupation,  your  pleasure,  in  the 
certainty  of  a  divine  Fatherhood  and  Brotherhood.  Do 
you  have  any  understanding  of  what  this  means :  "  He 
that  spared  not  His  own  Son  but  freely  gave  Him  up 
for  us  all,  how  shall  He  not  with  Him  also  freely  give 
us  all  things, "  —  any  understanding  such  that  when 
"  all  things  "  come  they  are  immediately  recognized  as 
given  in  Him,  so  that  they  are  no  longer  unaccountable 
fragments,  —  these  many  blessings,  —  but  the  pledges 
of  the  great  spiritual  heritage  of  holiness,  of  perfect 
life,  which  belongs  to  you  as  a  child,  an  heir  of  God,  a 
joint  heir  with  Christ  the  Son  of  God  ?  Do  you  believe 
in  the  Son  of  God  like  this  ?  If  you  do,  not  the  bread 
on  your  table,  not  the  joy  of  the  sunshine,  not  your  bal- 
ance in  the  bank,  no  blessing  is  too  common  or  vulgar 
to  fall  into  its  due  place  in  the  structural  unity  of  the 
new  life  which  is  faith  in  Christ.  Every  gift  excites 
gratitude  to  Him  as  the  Giver,  and  grows  sacred  in  its 
necessary  dedication  to  Him  as  the  Lord. 

Our  whole  thanksgiving  is  pitched  in  too  low  a  key ; 
we  come  with  gratitude  for  opened  eyes,  and  the  Sav- 
iour meets  us  with,  "Dost  thou  believe  in  the  Son  of 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  205 

God  ?  "     If  so,  thank  God  for  that  faith,  for  that  in- 
cludes every  blessing. 

So  much  of  Christ's  question.  Now  what  was  the 
man's  answer  ?  "  Dost  thou  believe  on  the  Son  of 
God  ?  "  "  Who  is  He,  Lord,  that  I  might  believe  on 
Him  ?  "  "I  do  not  know, "  he  seems  to  say,  " I  did  not 
mean  anything  like  that ;  I  did  not  seem  to  believe,  but 
yet  I  have  not  evidently  exhausted  or  fathomed  my  own 
thought.  There  is  something  below  that  I  have  not 
realized.  Perhaps  I  do  believe.  At  any  rate  I  should 
like  to.  The  vague  notion  attracts  me.  I  will  believe 
if  I  can. "  "  Who  is  He,  Lord,  that  I  might  believe  on 
Him  ?  "  The  simplicity  and  frankness,  the  guilelessness 
and  openness  of  the  man  makes  us  like  him  more 
than  ever.  There  is  evidently  for  him  a  chance,  nay, 
a  certainty,  that  he  will  be  greater,  fuller,  better  than 
he  is. 

Some  natures  are  inclusive;  some  are  exclusive. 
Some  men  seem  to  be  always  asking,  "  How  much  can 
I  take  in,"  and  some  are  always  asking,  "How  much 
can  I  shut  out  ?  "  You  see  it  in  men's  affections.  Some 
men  from  boyhood  up  are  eager  for  objects  to  love.  They 
crave  new  currents  of  affection  as  the  ocean  craves  the 
rivers.  They  will  love  anything  or  anybody  that  gives 
them  a  chance.  They  will  fasten  like  vines  about  any 
most  shapeless  thing  which  will  simply  stand  still  and  let 
them.  They  do  not  need  response.  Other  men  are  chary 
of  their  love.  Their  ingenuity  seems  to  run  the  other 
way.  They  will  find  something  in  the  most  perfect  char- 
acter that  can  release  them  from  the  unwelcome  duty  of 
admiration  and  regard.    They  seem  to  be  always  saying, 


206  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes. 

"  Tell  me  something  about  him  that  can  lessen  my  love, 
that  can  show  me  that  I  need  not  love  him. "  And  so 
it  is  in  matters  of  action  too.  Some  minds  are  quick 
to  find  the  practicability  and  usefulness  of  things,  and 
devise  how  they  can  do  them ;  other  minds  are  quick  to 
see  the  impossibilities  and  the  hindrances  of  things, 
and  discover  why  they  need  not  do  them.  Some  men 
seek  tasks,  and  some  men  shirk  them. 

And  so  it  is  peculiarly  of  faith.  One  man  wants  to 
believe;  he  welcomes  evidence.  He  asks,  "Who  is 
He,  that  I  may  believe  on  Him  ?  "  Another  man  seems 
to  dread  to  believe ;  he  has  ingenuity  in  discovering  the 
flaws  of  proof.  If  he  asks  for  more  information,  it  is 
because  he  is  sure  that  some  objection  or  discrepancy 
will  appear  which  will  release  him  from  the  unwelcome 
duty  of  believing.  He  says,  "  Show  me  more  of  Him, 
of  what  He  is,  and  I  will  surely  find  some  reason  why  I 
should  not  believe  Him. "  We  see  the  two  tendencies, 
all  of  us,  in  people  that  we  know.  Carried  to  their  ex- 
tremes, they  develop  on  one  side  the  superstitious  and 
on  the  other  side  the  sceptical  spirit. 

Different  ages  swing  to  one  side  or  the  other.  There 
is  one  view  of  our  own  time  which  sees  in  it  the  embodi- 
ment of  the  sceptical  tendency;  certainly  its  critical 
spirit  is  very  manifest.  It  asks  with  a  loud  voice  how 
it  may  escape  believing.  I  believe  the  other  spirit, 
though  quiet  in  its  operations,  is  very  active  all  the 
while  down  below.  I  believe  that  what  passes  for  the 
spirit  of  doubt  is  very  often  the  spirit  of  belief  misun- 
derstood, sometimes  misunderstanding  itself;  but  cer- 
tainly the  tendency  to  avoid  believing  unless   one  is 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  207 

absolutely  forced  to  it  is  very  strong  and  very  common. 
Any  one  can  see  it. 

But  speculations  on  the  character  of  our  own  time  as 
a  whole  are  good  for  very  little.  How  is  it  with  us 
ourselves  ?  Do  we  not  share  in  this  spirit  of  unwilling- 
ness to  believe  ?  It  is  an  educated  temper  which  often 
has  become  so  set  in  us  that  we  do  not  recognize  it 
for  what  it  is ;  we  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  other 
temper.  But  there  is  another.  There  is  a  large  healthy 
hunger  after  belief  which  is  as  different  from  the  mor- 
bid appetite  of  superstition,  as  health  always  is  different 
from  disease.  There  are  men  who  want  to  believe,  — 
who  would  rather  believe  than  not,  — when  some  great 
spiritual  theory  of  the  universe  is  offered  them  to  ac- 
count for  its  bewilderments  and  to  help  its  troubles. 
The  secret  of  their  life  seems  to  be  this,  that  they  are 
men  deeply  impressed  with  the  infiniteness  of  life. 
Does  that  seem  vague  and  transcendental  ?  They  are 
men  who  are  always  conscious  of  the  spiritual  and  un- 
seen underneath  the  visible  and  material,  —  men  who 
are  always  sure  that  there  is  a  great  region  of  unknown 
truth  which  they  ought  to  know,  and  who  are  restless 
after  it.  To  such  men  all  that  they  see  presupposes 
things  which  they  do  not  see. 

There  comes  great  happiness  to  them.  That  happi- 
ness is  perfectly  hollow  unless  there  is  a  meaning  be- 
hind it,  unless  it  tells  of  intentions  somewhere,  unless 
it  means  love.  They  know  that  "Eat,  drink,  and  be 
merry,"  is  not  the  end  of  it  all.  To  love  some  one  who 
is  loving  them,  that  is  what  they  want  to  do.  "  Oh, 
that  I  could  find  Him !     Oh,  that  I  could  find  Him  I "  is 


208  The  Oldening  of  the  Eyes. 

their  cry.  Great  sorrow  comes.  But  to  them  sorrow 
cannot  rest  in  broken  limbs  or  lost  fortunes.  Those 
again  are  only  symbols.  The  essential  thing  lies  deeper. 
The  meaning  once  more  must  be  personal.  Some  hand 
—  of  friend  or  enemy  —  hath  done  this.  Whose  hand  ? 
And  immediately  the  eager  eye  is  searching  among 
spiritual  and  eternal  things.  What  has  God  had  to  do 
with  it  all  ?  The  sorrow  rolls  over  the  soul  with 
stronger  forces  than  its  own  weight  could  carry.  They 
are  sure  they  do  not  know  the  whole  about  it.  They 
crave  something  more  to  believe. 

Or  sin  comes,  great  sin,  —  for  to  such  a  mind  no  sin 
seems  small.  What  is  sin  ?  The  broken  law,  the  dis- 
ordered order,  seem  but  outside  things.  Somewhere 
there  must  be  a  centre  and  a  source  of  law,  a  soul  of 
order.  Somewhere  there  must  be  one  to  whom  the  sin- 
ful heart  can  cry,  "Against  Thee  have  I  sinned,"  in  the 
deep  satisfaction  of  confession ;  to  whom  it  can  appeal, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner, "  in  mighty  supplication 
for  forgiveness.  Until  it  finds  Him,  it  carries  its  load ; 
and  no  pardon  from  fellow-man,  no  repair  of  conse- 
quences can  take  it  off. 

So  everywhere  the  nature  that  is  conscious  of  the  in- 
finiteness  of  life  longs  to  believe  in  a  manifested  God. 
Its  whole  disposition  is  toward  faith;  and  then  if  any 
glimpse  is  offered  of  a  Son  of  God,  a  manifestation  of 
the  Invisible  Deity  who  sends  happiness  and  sorrow  and 
who  can  forgive  sin,  there  is  no  tendency  to  disbelieve, 
there  is  the  hunger  of  the  heart  leaping  with  fearful 
hope,  there  is  the  stretching  out  of  the  arms  as  when 
they  told  Bartimeus,  "Jesus  of  Nazareth  passeth  by;" 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  209 

and  the  soul  cries  out,  "  Who  is  He  that  I  may  believe 
on  Him." 

More  than  we  think,  far  more,  depends  upon  this  first 
attitude  of  the  whole  nature,  —  upon  whether  we  want 
to  believe  or  want  to  disbelieve.  To  one  who  wants  to 
disbelieve,  objections,  difficulties,  spring  from  every 
page  of  the  Bible,  from  every  word  of  Christ.  To  one 
who  finds  the  forces  of  this  life  sufficient,  an  incarna- 
tion, a  supernatural  salvation  is  incredible.  To  one 
who,  looking  deeper,  knows  there  must  be  some  infinite 
force  which  it  has  not  found  yet,  —  some  loving,  living 
force  of  Emanuel,  of  God  with  man,  —  the  Son  of  God 
is  waiting  on  the  threshold  and  will  immediately  come. 
Christ  supposes  an  element  of  incompleteness  every- 
where, making  a  hungry  world,  — preparing  the  whole 
man  not  to  reject  as  useless  and  incredible,  but  to  accept 
as  just  what  it  needs  and  expects,  a  mysterious,  a  su- 
pernatural, divine  Redemption,  preparing  the  mental 
nature  for  faith,  and  the  moral  nature  for  repentance, 
and  the  spiritual  nature  for  guidance.  To  this  readi- 
ness alone  can  Christ  come.  You  remember  that  there 
were  cities  where  Jesus  could  do  no  mighty  works  be- 
cause of  their  unbelief.  You  remember  Jerusalem: 
"Oh  how  often  would  I  have  gathered  thy  children 
together  and  ye  would  not." 

This  seems  to  me  part  of  what  Christ  means  when  He 
tells  us  that,  "^xcept  we  become  as  little  children  we 
cannot  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  The  little 
children  are  ready  for  every  revelation  that  may  come 
to  them.  This  strange  new  world  is  very  big,  is  infinite 
to  them ;  and  no  force  seems  too  mighty,  too  infinite  to 

11 


210  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes. 

fill  it.  You  tell  them  of  a  Son  of  God,  and  it  seems 
most  natural  to  them,  —  the  whole  story  of  Bethlehem 
and  Calvary ;  they  cry,  "  Who  is  He  that  we  may  believe 
in  Him  ?  "  This  is  what  Wordsworth  sings  in  his  great 
ode, — 

"  Those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 

those  first  affections. 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day." 

These  are  what  make  the  little  children  blessed,  these 
Teachings  back  and  down  into  the  darkness  for  the  hand 
of  the  God  whom  they  have  just  left,  and  whom  they 
still  expect,  and  in  whom  they  easily  believe. 

Go  asking  for  a  Son  of  God,  seeing  how  life  is  empty 
and  sad  and  inexplicable  without  Him,  ready  and  want- 
ing to  believe  in  Him,  and  He  shall  surely  come ;  for 
He  must  come  to  every  soul  to  which  He  can  come. 
And  if  He  seems  to  delay  His  coming,  it  is  only  that 
He  may  come  more  deeply  and  more  richly. 

How  will  He  come?  We  go  back  to  our  story  and 
read  the  third  speech  of  the  dialogue:  "Who  is  He, 
Lord,  that  I  might  believe  on  Him  ? "  "  Thou  fiast 
both  seen  Him,  and  it  is  He  that  talketh  with  thee." 
The  teaching  that  seems  to  me  to  be  here  for  us,  is  this, 
—  that  when  Christ  "comes,"  as  we  say,  to  a  human 
soul,  it  is  only  to  the  consciousness  of  the  soul  that  He 


JTie  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  211 

is  introduced,  not  to  the  soul  itself ;  He  has  been  at  the 
doors  of  that  from  its  very  beginning.  We  lose  this 
out  of  our  Christianity ;  but  really  it  ought  not  only  to 
be  in  our  Christianity,  it  ought  to  be  our  Christianity, 
—  this  certainty  of  an  ever-present,  ever-active  Christ. 
We  live  in  a  redeemed  world,  —  a  world  full  of  the 
Holy  Ghost  forever  doing  His  work,  forever  taking  of 
the  things  of  Christ  and  showing  them  to  us.  That 
Christ  so  shown  is  the  most  real,  most  present  power 
in  this  new  Christian  world.  Men  see  Him,  men  talk 
with  Him  continually.  They  do  not  recognize  Him; 
they  do  not  know  what  lofty  converse  they  are  holding ; 
but  some  day  when,  in  some  of  the  ways  we  have  been 
talking  of  to-night,  a  man  has  become  really  earnest 
and  wants  to  believe  in  the  Son  of  God,  and  is  asking, 
"  Who  is  He  that  I  may  believe  on  Him  ?  "  then  that 
Son  of  God  comes  to  him,  —  not  as  a  new  guest  from  the 
lofty  heaven,  but  as  the  familiar  and  slighted  friend 
who  has  waited  and  watched  at  the  doorstep,  who  has 
already  from  the  very  first  filled  the  soul's  house  with 
such  measure  of  His  influence  as  the  soul's  obstinacy  of 
indifference  would  allow,  and  who  now,  as  He  steps  in 
at  the  soul's  eager  call  to  take  complete  and  final  pos- 
session of  its  life,  does  not  proclaim  His  coming  in  aw- 
ful, new,  unfamiliar  words,  but  says  in  tones  which  the 
soul  recognizes  and  wonders  that  it  has  not  known  long 
before,  "  Thou  hast  seen  me.  I  have  talked  with  thee. " 
This  is  Christ's  conversion  of  a  soul.  "  Say  not  in 
thine  heart.  Who  shall  ascend  into  Heaven  ?  (that  is,  to 
bring  down  Christ  from  above) :  or.  Who  shall  descend 
into  the  deep  ?  (that  is,  to  bring  up  Christ  again  from  the 


212  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes. 

dead).  But  what  saith  it  ?  The  word  is  nigh  thee,  even 
in  thy  mouth  and  in  thy  heart :  that  is,  the  word  of  faith, 
that  if  thou  shalt  confess  with  thy  mouth  the  Lord  Jesus 
and  shalt  believe  in  thine  heart  that  God  hath  raised 
Him  from  the  dead,  thou  shalt  be  saved. "  ,  To  open  the 
eyes  and  find  a  Christ  beside  us,  —  not  to  go  long  jour- 
neys to  discover  a  Christ  with  whom  before  we  have  had 
nothing  to  do, — this  is  the  Christian  conversion. 

To  this  every  man  who  is  living  the  new  life  at  all 
will  bear  his  witness.  How  did  the  Saviour  first  prove 
himself  to  you  ?  Was  it  not  by  the  past  which  suddenly 
or  gradually  became  full  of  Him,  so  that  you  recognized 
that  He  had  been  busy  on  you  when  you  did  not  know 
it,  that  He  had  been  leading  you  when  you  thought 
you  had  been  wandering,  so  that  you  saw  your  past 
thoughts  grow  luminous  as  His  inspirations,  your  past 
dreams  as  the  contagions  of  His  presence  and  the 
prophecies  of  His  touch  ?  Was  not  this  His  answer 
when  you  called  Him  ?  Not,  "  I  am  coming, "  away  off 
in  the  distance,  but  "Here  I  am,"  spoken  right  out  of 
the  very  soul  and  centre  of  your  life  ? 

I  am  not  speaking  merely  of  that  general,  beautiful, 
wonderful  presence  of  the  supernatural  in  and  under 
and  through  the  natural  courses  of  human  life  of  which 
all  men  are  more  or  less  aware,  and  which  every  now 
and  then  breaks  forth,  —  which  always  gives  the  great 
ground  swell  of  mystery  to  human  existence.  I  do  not 
wish  to  lose  in  vagueness  the  personal,  clear,  dear 
Christ.  I  mean  that  close  to  every  man  from  his  birth 
the  Redeemer  stands  by  His  spirit  with  the  great  pur- 
poses of  His  redemption ;  that  He  brings  those  purposes 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  213 

to  bear  upon  the  soul  from  the  very  first;  and  that 
when  a  man  awakes  up  to  know  his  need  and  calls  for 
a  Son  of  God,  and  then  when  he  opens  his  eyes  and 
sees  the  Christ  beside  him,  the  dearest  part  of  it  all  ia 
that  it  is  not  a  Christ  newly  come,  but  the  Christ  who 
has  cared  for  him  from  the  beginning,  ever  since,  nay, 
long  before,  he  was  born.  "  Thou  hast  both  seen  me, 
and  it  is  I  that  talked  with  thee. " 

"Thou  hast  both  seen  me."  How  touching  in  this 
special  story  is  the  allusion  to  the  light  which  the  Lord 
had  given  only  that  day.  Jesus  reminds  him  of  the 
lower  mercy  that  He  may  assure  him  of  the  higher. 
"  Thou  hast  seen  Him  with  the  eyes  that  I  have  opened. 
Let  that  be  a  pledge  and  earnest  to  thee  that  I  can  and 
will  open  yet  other  eyes,  and  thou  shalt  see  Him  more 
completely,  more  profoundly,  in  wonderful  new  ways. " 
Still,  you  see,  it  is  as  the  Saviour  of  the  past  life  that 
He  offers  Himself  for  the  future. 

\  I  love  to  think  of  this,  that  where  men  to-day  are 
most  unconscious  of  His  presence,  Christ  is  laying  foun- 
dations for  His  future  work.  Here  is  a  perfectly  worldly 
man  who  cares  nothing  for  Christ  or  Christianity,  but 
yet  Christ's  touches  are  on  him.  He  is  surrounded 
with  blessings ;  he  is  pressed  upon  with  sorrows ;  he  is 
led  through  apparently  meaningless  experiences;  and 
all  that  some  day,  when  he  is  really  moved  to  cry  out 
for  a  Son  of  God,  Christ  may  be  able  to  come  to  him, 
not  new  and  strange,  but  with  the  strong  claim  of 
years  of  care  and  thought  and  unthanked  mercy.  It 
makes  the  world  very  solemn  to  think  how  much  of  this 
work  Christ  must  be  doing  everywhere.     It  makes  our 


214  The  Opening  of  the  Eyes. 

own  lives  very  sacred  to  think  how  much  of  it  He  may 
be  doing  in  us. 

There  have  been  great  creative  moments  in  the  hir.- 
tory  of  the  world,  as  all  history  and  science  seera  1*0 
show, — moments  when  after  long,  silent  preparation^^ 
suddenly  the  old  order  broke  and  a  new,  as  if  by  magic, 
came  into  its  place.  So  it  has  been  in  physical  and 
social  and  political  history.  But  in  neither  was  there 
any  magic.  The  same  force  which  was  in  the  last 
changing  conviction  had  been  in  all  the  preparation. 
The  flower  is  but  the  ripening  of  the  same  juices  that 
built  the  stem.  So  it  is  with  conversion  to  the  very 
last.  The  Christ  who  in  eternity  opens  the  last  con- 
cealment, and  lays  His  comfort  and  life  close  to  the 
deepest  needs  of  the  poor,  needy,  human  heart,  is  the 
same  Christ  that  first  laid  hands  upon  the  blind  eyes, 
and  made  them  see  the  sky  and  flowers. 

It  is  a  wondrous  revelation  of  the  Saviour.  He 
comes  to  us  by  showing  that  He  has  been  always  with 
us.  He  finds  the  material  of  the  Christian  life  in  us, 
and  builds  it  by  His  touch.  Does  this  seem  to  lessen 
and  depreciate  His  work  ?  Does  it  take  from  its  abso- 
lute importance  ?  Do  you  ask  what  is  the  fate  of  the 
material  if  it  is  not  used  ?  That  He  has  answered  Him- 
self  in  the  Parable  of  the  Talents. 

In  words  full  of  solemnity,  Jesus  summed  up  His 
whole  impression  of  the  story  which  we  have  been  study- 
ing to-night.  He  declared  the  critical  character  which 
He  brought  into  the  world,  —  that  men  are  tested  by 
how  they  are  affected  by  Tlim.  How  wonderfully  deep 
His  words  are.     "For  judgracnt  I  am  come  into  the 


The  Opening  of  the  Eyes.  215 

world,   that  they  which  see  not  might  see,  and  they 
which  see  might  be  made  blind. " 

May  we  first  know  how  blind  we  are,  and  then  come 
to  Him  for  sight,  and  then  out  of  past  mercy  always  win 
new  trust,  and  so  go  on  until  at  last  we  come  unto  the 
perfect  Light. 


xm. 

THE  BELOVED  PHYSICIAlSr. 

Luke,  the  beloved  physician.  —  Colossians  iv.  14. 

The  eighteenth  day  of  October  has  long  been  kept  in 
the  Church  as  the  Festival  of  the  Evangelist,  Saint  Luke. 
Once  every  year,  upon  this  day,  the  Church  has  chosen 
to  remind  us  that  the  third  Gospel  did  not  drop  down 
from  the  stars,  and  did  not  spring  up  out  of  the  earth ; 
but  that  it  was  written  by  a  man,  and  is  stamped  with  his 
personality ;  that  it  is  the  description  of  the  life  of  Jesus 
through  a  special  human  medium ;  and  that  it  is  good 
for  us,  in  our  sense  of  the  preciousness  of  the  Gospel,  to 
remember  and  study  and  be  grateful  to  the  man  who 
wrote  it. 

No  doubt  the  institution  of  a  Saint  Luke's  day  was 
meant  to  be  a  special  commemoration  of  the  evangelist. 
It  is  as  the  author  of  the  Gospel  that  the  Church  is 
mostly  interested  in  Saint  Luke.  That  book  is  one  of 
the  four  golden  columns  on  which  rest  the  Christian 
history.  It  is  one  of  the  four  golden  trumpets  out  of 
which  has  been  blown  the  summons  of  Christ  to  the 
sons  of  men.  And  besides  being  one  of  four,  it  has  also 
its  own  peculiar  character.  The  reader  of  the  Gospel 
of  Saint  Luke,  if  he  has  been  intelligent  and  sympa- 
thetic, has  always  felt  a  sort  of  human  breadth  and 


The  Beloved  Physician.  217 

richness  in  it  which,  in  kind  at  least,  was  peculiarly  its 
own.  It  was  not  so  Jewish  as  the  others.  The  very 
fact  that  it  is  the  Gospel  in  which  we  have  most  fully 
told  the  story  of  the  Lord's  nativity,  and  in  which  alone 
occurs  the  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  is  enough  to 
show  how  well  the  Church  does  in  commemorating 
always  the  man  who  wrote  it. 

But  it  is  not  only  as  the  writer  of  the  Gospel  that  we 
know  Saint  Luke ;  and  though  we  shall  not  forget  for 
a  moment,  while  we  speak  of  him,  that  he  is  the  writer 
of  the  Gospel,  it  is  with  reference  to  what  is  told  us 
of  him  in  other  associations  that  I  want  to  speak  to- 
day. It  is  not  much.  At  a  certain  point  in  the  book 
of  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  the  writer  of  the  book  be- 
gins to  use  the  first  personal  pronoun  "we,"  in  telling 
the  story  of  the  missionary  journeys.  At  another  cer- 
tain point  he  ceases  to  say  "we,"  and  falls  back  into 
the  use  of  the  third  person.  The  first  verse  of  that  same 
book  of  Acts  identifies  its  author  with  the  author  of  the 
Gospel  which  bears  the  name  of  Luke.  Between  these 
two  points,  then,  of  which  I  spoke,  Luke  was  the  fellow- 
traveller  and  fellow-laborer  of  Paul  who  is  the  central 
figure  of  the  larger  portion  of  the  book.  During  the 
time  when  they  were  thus  together  Paul  wrote  several 
epistles,  among  them  two  from  his  imprisonment  at 
Rome,  —  one  to  the  Church  of  the  Colossians,  and  the 
other  to  his  young  disciple  Timothy.  In  his  letter  to 
Timothy  he  says,  "  Only  Luke  is  with  mc. "  In  his  let- 
ter to  the  Colossians  he  uses  the  expression  of  my  text, 
—  "  Luke,  the  beloved  physician. "  He  says,  "  Luke,  the 
beloved  physician,  and  Demas  greet  you ! " 


218  The  Beloved  Physician. 

That  is  almost  all.  By  early  tradition  or  by  putting 
together  incidental  indications  we  are  able  to  discern 
that  Lucanus,  as  he  was  called  in  Latin,  was  a  Gentile 
and  a  citizen  of  Antioch.  All  else  is  vague.  Simply 
there  came  from  among  the  men  of  Antioch  one  —  a 
physician  by  profession  —  who  travelled  on  his  mis- 
sionary journeys  with  Saint  Paul,  and  by  and  by,  before 
he  died,  wrote  at  Saint  Paul's  suggestion  the  story  of 
that  life  of  Jesus  which  lay  at  the  back  of  all  the  teach- 
ing in  which  the  missionary  journeys  were  engaged. 

And  yet  there  is  something  more ;  for  careful  and  in- 
genious study  has  seemed  to  make  it  clear  that  Luke's 
character  as  a  physician  was  a  genuine  and  significant 
thing,  and  that  it  remained  a  strong  and  influential  fact 
even  after  he  became  a  missionary.  His  style,  his 
choice  of  words,  the  special  events  of  Christ's  life 
which  he  selects  for  his  narration,  bear  marks  of  the 
physician's  habits  of  thought  and  speech;  and  an  ex- 
ceedingly ingenious  comparison  of  times  has  made  it  cu- 
riously appear  that  Luke  on  several  occasions  came  to 
Saint  Paul  just  when  the  great  apostle  was  most  over- 
come with  weakness,  or  was  just  recovering  from  some 
one  of  the  severe  attacks  which  every  now  and  then 
broke  down  his  feeble  strength.  Indeed  I  think  we  feel 
in  these  words  from  the  letter  to  the  Colossians,  "Luke, 
the  beloved  physician, "  that  Paul  is  speaking  not  merely 
of  one  who  once  had  been,  but  of  one  who  now  was  in 
practice  of  the  art  of  healing.  It  is  a  present  fact.  It  is 
a  fact  that  excites  affection.  It  is  as  a  physician,  among 
other  things,  that  Luke  travels  with  Paul  from  land  to 
land  or  shares  his  long  imprisonment  at  Rome. 


The  Beloved  Physician.  219 

Nothing  of  this  same  sort,  so  far  as  I  remember,  is 
true  of  any  of  the  other  of  the  early  converts  and  mis- 
sionaries of  Christ.  Of  the  professions  of  some  of  them 
we  are  told  nothing;  of  others  of  them  it  would  seem 
as  if  they  left  their  former  occupation  and  had  no  more 
to  do  with  it  after  they  had  been  converted.  Of  Luke 
alone  it  would  appear  as  if  he  still  continued  to  do  as  a 
Christian  the  same  thing  which  he  had  done  before  he 
became  Christ's  disciple.  In  him  alone  we  see  what 
since  his  time  has  been  the  natural  and  normal  type  of 
Christian  life,  —  the  inspiration  of  a  definite  old  occu- 
pation by  a  new  spiritual  power,  so  that  it  continued  to 
be  exercised,  and  showed  its  genuine  capacity  and  ful- 
filled its  true  ideal. 

It  is  of  this  feature  in  the  dimly-outlined  story  of 
Saint  Luke  that  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  to-day.  It  sug- 
gests, I  think,  certain  thoughts  with  reference  first,  to 
the  general  relation  of  the  Christian  life  to  men's  occu- 
pations and  professions,  and  then,  to  the  special  profes- 
sion with  which  the  physician-disciple  belonged. 

The  disposition  to  find  the  simplicity  of  motive  under 
the  variety  of  action  is  one  of  the  most  familiar  dispo- 
sitions of  our  time.  The  first  man,  the  savage  man,  the 
child,  looks  at  the  world  and  fancies  as  many  forces  as 
he  sees  moving  things.  The  brook  running  from  the 
hillside,  the  branch  waving  in  the  breezes,  the  solemn 
procession  of  the  stars  across  the  sky,  the  fire  bursting 
from  the  mountain's  summit,  the  silent  growth  of  corn- 
fields, and  the  noisy  rush  of  the  tornado,  —  every  one  of 
these  to  the  barbarian  is  absolutely  separate.  He  fan- 
cies a  new  force  for  each.     He  crowns  in  his  imagina- 


220  The  Beloved  Physician. 

tion  one  deity  for  the  forest,  and  another  for  the  fire, 
and  another  for  the  stream.  It  is  one  fruitful  source 
of  polytheism.  And  if,  behind  his  multitude  of  dei- 
ties, there  sits  in  his  thought  some  mighty  lord  over 
all,  it  is  his  only  to  keep  in  order  a  distracted  universe, 
and  to  curb  his  quarrelsome  divinities  that  he  may  pre- 
serve some  sort  of  disorderly  and  fragmentary  peace. 
What  is  the  progress  from  that  first  barbarism  ?  What 
is  the  maturity  which  comes  out  from  that  childishness 
of  thought  ?  Is  it  not  the  suspicion  first,  and  then  the 
certainty,  of  some  few  great  motive  forces  lying  deep  in 
Nature  which  at  least  shall  take  these  multitudinous 
forms  of  action  and  combine  them  into  groups  ?  What 
is  the  dream  of  him  who  watches  this  great  grouping  of 
the  forms  of  action  under  the  inspiration  of  a  few  great 
forces  ?  Is  it  not  that  some  day  —  far  hence  but  cer- 
tainly some  day  —  these  few  great  forces  shall  themselves 
be  seen  to  be  but  utterances  of  one  great  force,  vital 
enough  to  fill  them  all  with  vitality,  and  the  complete 
simplicity  of  Nature  be  attained  in  the  dependence  of 
everything  on  some  one  first  moving  force,  —  when  Na- 
ture herself  shall  become  almost  a  real  being  standing 
at  the  centre  of  all  life,  and  claiming  all  action  out  to 
the  budding  of  the  least  flower  and  the  waving  of  the 
lightest  twig  as  a  direct  act  of  hers  ? 

And  now  suppose  we  turn  from  the  world  of  Nature 
to  the  world  of  human  action.  Is  not  the  one  a  parable 
of  the  other  ?  Is  not  the  world  of  human  action,  like 
the  world  of  Nature,  a  scene  of  endless  superficial  vari- 
ety which  by  and  by  we  learn  to  gather  into  unity  under 
the  power  of  some  central  inspiration  ?     One   at  his 


The  Beloved  Physician.  221 

farm  and  another  at  his  merchandise,  one  singing  songs, 
one  painting  pictures,  one  pleading  causes,  one  build- 
ing houses,  and  one  making  shoes,  —  here  is  this  count- 
less diversity  of  human  action.  To  the  first  observer 
that  would  seem  to  be  everything.  Each  profession  is 
a  life  by  itself.  It  will  have  its  own  thoughts  and 
standards,  its  own  principles  and  passions,  with  which 
no  other  profession  will  have  anything  in  common.  So 
it  is  in  certain  crude  communities  where  caste  prevails. 
The  caste  of  the  shoemakers  and  the  caste  of  the  cooks 
have  nothing  to  do  with  one  anotner. 

But  that  is  only  the  first  aspect,  —  the  earliest  form 
of  human  life.  Very  soon  he  who  lives  begins  to  feel, 
and  he  who  watches  begins  to  discover,  some  deeper 
forces  which  are  working  underneath  and  giving  a  real 
unity  to  all  this  seemingly  incoherent  life.  The  love 
of  independence,  the  love  of  family,  the  love  of  fame, 
—  these  great  elemental  desires  of  humanity  are  what 
are  making  the  lawyer  plead  his  case,  and  the  mason 
lay  his  blocks  of  stone.  As  you  walk  the  streets  with 
this  truth  in  your  mind  the  furious  discord  begins  to 
deepen  and  condense  itself  to  music.  It  sounds  in  va- 
rious strains  to  different  men,  and  to  the  same  man  at 
different  times,  according  as  this  or  that  one  of  the 
great  dispositions  of  humanity  is  most  dominant  in  the 
listener's  soul ;  but  it  is  always  rich  and  deep  in  pro- 
portion to  the  depths  of  the  motive  under  which  the 
soul  tries  to  harmonize  the  discord.  The  deeper  in  the 
mass  lies  the  point  which  you  make  your  centre,  so 
much  the  larger  will  be  the  portion  of  the  substance  of 


222  The  Beloved  Physician. 

the  mass  which  can  group  itself  into  a  sphere  around 
the  point  which  you  have  chosen. 

And  so  the  question  will  inevitably  come  into  men's 
minds,  How  will  it  be  if  you  can  reach  one  point 
which  is  the  genuine  centre  of  the  whole  mass  and 
behind  all  the  other  forces  which  come  from  part  way 
in  can  feel  one  supreme  force  of  which  they  all  are 
only  modifications  and  exhibitions,  issuing  from  the 
very  heart  of  all  ?  The  dream  of  physics  renews  itself 
in  morals.  The  physicist  wonders  whether  perhaps  all 
these  special  forces  of  heat  and  electricity  and  all  the 
rest  are  only  forms  and  phases  of  some  great  vital  force 
which  man  shall  some  day  find,  and  which,  when  it  is 
found,  shall  perfectly  account  for  all  that  goes  on  in  the 
world  of  Nature ;  so  the  moralist  asks  himself  whether 
these  partial  forces,  the  love  of  the  exercise  of  powers, 
the  love  of  independence,  the  love  of  family,  the  love  of 
fame,  may  not,  if  they  be  carried  deep  enough,  be  found 
to  meet  in  and  to  issue  from  one  central  force,  —  the 
love  of  God,  —  of  which  they  are  the  utterances,  and  in 
their  common  belonging  to  which  they  may  find  unity. 
If  this  could  be,  if  man's  pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  his 
powers  could  be  felt  as  the  desire  to  realize  the  part  of 
God's  nature  which  has  been  put  forth  in  him,  and  the 
love  of  independence  could  seem  to  be  the  desire  to  re- 
late oneself  directly  to  the  source  of  life,  and  the  love 
of  family  could  become  the  echo  of  God's  Fatherhood, 
and  the  love  of  fame  could  be  made  a  seeking  for  God's 
glory,  —  if  this  could  be,  would  not  the  unity  of  life  be 
perfect  ?  Out  from  one  central  fountain  of  force  —  the 
soul's  love  for  God  as  its  Father  —  would  flow  the  power 


The  Beloved  Physician.  223 

which  would  first  take  form  in  all  the  variety  of  sec- 
ondary impulses  which  I  have  described,  and  then,  at 
last,  create  all  the  endlessly  various  forms  of  activity  of 
man ;  so  that  everything  which  man  had  a  right  to  do  at 
all  upon  the  earth  might  be  ideally  done  as  an  expres- 
sion of  it,  —  this  central  force,  this  love  of  man  for 
God. 

Does  it  not  change  the  aspect  and  feeling  of  his  work 
in  life,  of  that  which  we  call  his  profession,  when  this 
which  I  have  pictured  as  taking  place  some  day  univer- 
sally takes  place  for  any  man  ?  That  which  he  has  to 
do  first,  reaches  inward  to  the  heart  of  things  —  to  the 
source  of  life  —  and  finds  its  deepest  motive.  Then, 
that  deepest  motive  reaches  outward  and  becomes  the 
inspiring  force  and  the  sufficient  cause  of  what  he  has 
to  do.  If  it  has  a  real  right  to  take  hold  of  that  deepest 
motive  and  say,  "  I  am  done  because  of  it, "  is  not  the 
man's  profession  glorified  ?  Is  it  not  redeemed  ?  If  it 
have  drudgery  connected  with  it  (and  where  is  the  pro- 
fession which  has  not  ?)  is  not  its  drudgery  enlightened 
by  this  impulse  from  within,  by  being  made  part  of  the 
working  out  into  utterance  of  this  transcendant  force  ? 
And  is  not  its  real  unity  with  other  professions,  how- 
ever absolutely  different  they  may  be  from  it  in  form, 
brought  out  and  made  vivid  in  their  common  relation 
to  the  source  from  which  all  spring  ?  And,  what  per- 
haps is  more  than  all,  the  man's  own  life  is  harmon- 
ized; the  general  and  special  come  to  reconciliation. 
The  glory  and  the  detail  of  living  cease  to  contend  with 
and  destroy  each  other.  They  begin  to  help  each  other. 
The  talk  about  the  way  in  which  life  is  hindered  by 


224  The  Beloved  Physician. 

having  to  get  a  living  is  put  to  silence.  These  are  the 
things  which  professional  life  needs,  these  three,  — the 
redemption  of  its  drudgery,  the  establishment  of  sympa- 
thy with  other  professions,  and  the  harmony  of  the  ab- 
solute and  universal  with  the  relative  and  special ;  and 
all  of  these  must  come  when  that  which  a  man  does  in 
his  profession  reaches  down  and  lays  hold  as  its  motive 
on  the  love  of  God. 

And  now  what  is  conversion  ?  What  was  it  that 
came  to  Luke  of  Antioch  when  suddenly  or  slowly  by 
the  preaching  of  Saint  Paul  he  came  to  believe  in  the 
Incarnation  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  all  that  the  Incarna- 
tion meant  ?  We  have  his  glowing  book  to  tell  us,  we 
have  the  sweet  and  loving  and  triumphant  story  which 
he  wrote  of  "  all  that  Jesus  began  both  to  do  and  teach 
until  the  day  in  which  He  was  taken  up. "  But  when 
we  want  to  crowd  it  into  one  great  word,  I  think  we 
turn  to  what  Paul  the  great  apostle  wrote  —  perhaps 
with  Luke  sitting  by  him  at  the  time  —  to  the  Gala- 
tians :  "  The  life  which  I  now  live  in  the  flesh,  I  live 
by  the  faith  of  the  Son  of  God. "  Paul  must  have  taught 
Luke  the  meaning  of  those  words.  Luke  must  have 
learned  to  say  them  of  himself.  Luke's  work  in  life 
consisted,  in  part  at  least,  of  the  physician's  duty. 
Therefore  Luke  must  have  gone  among  his  patients  say- 
ing, "I  do  this  by  the  faith  of  the  Son  of  God."  Tell 
me,  when  he  could  say  that,  was  there  no  holier  sacred- 
ness  in  the  finger  which  he  laid  on  the  sick  man's  pulse  ? 
Was  there  no  truer  sense  of  sympathy  with  the  men 
whom  he  saw  on  every  side  of  him  engaged  in  other 
works  than  his  ?     Was  there  no  calmer  sense  of  recon- 


The  Beloved  Physician.  225 

ciliation  between  the  general  conception  of  existence 
which  must  have  filled  a  mind  like  his  and  his  special 
labor  of  the  hour,  no  truer  mutual  understanding  be- 
tween the  vast  slow-heaving  tide  and  the  light  waves 
which  ran  their  races  on  its  broad  bosom  when  the  sea 
of  which  they  both  were  parts  had  given  itself  com- 
pletely into  the  power  of  the  great  attraction  ? 

This  is  conversion.  Suppose  that  there  is  nothing  of 
it  in  the  world  to-day.  Suppose  that  not  a  single  man 
in  all  the  world  to-day  knows  Christ  and  all  the  love  of 
God  which  Christ  reveals;  yet  still  the  needs  of  life 
and  the  discovered  aptitudes  of  various  human  creatures 
have  created  the  professions  and  the  trades,  the  tasks 
of  life  have  been  distributed  and  in  their  different 
groups,  men  are  engaged  in  all  these  well-known  occu- 
pations, —  buying  and  teaching  and  digging  and  build- 
ing and  carving  and  doctoring,  —  you  know  the  familiar 
list.  And  then  suppose  that  suddenly  there  is  put  in 
at  the  heart  of  all  this  human  action,  as  a  totally  new 
thing,  the  warm  fire  of  the  love  of  God.  Suppose  it 
comes  in  an  instant  in  its  full-grown  strength.  How 
it  will  take  at  once  the  old  chambers  and  fill  them  with 
itself!  How  it  will  pour  itself  forth  through  the  old 
channels!  How  they  will  become  transfigured  with 
the  fire  that  will  come  burning  through  them!  How 
the  old  professions,  remaining  the  same  things,  will 
be  such  different  things  from  what  they  were  before! 
It  will  be  as  if  you  took  a  group  of  common  men  using 
the  common  human  organs  for  most  ordinary  work  and 
poured  into  each  one  of  them  the  whole  mind  of  Shakes- 
peare or  the  whole  soul  of  Saint  John.     Still  the  old 

15 


226  The  Beloved  Physician. 


physical  machinery  would  be  in  use;  but  what  words 
now  those  lips  would  speak  which  used  to  talk  only 
of  markets  and  of  weather !  What  deeds  now  those 
hands  would  do  that  used  to  pull  the  wires  of  petty 
tricks !  The  professions  have  no  more  real  character  in 
them  than  the  lips  or  the  hands  have.  They  get  all 
their  character,  all  their  glory  or  disgrace,  from  the 
purpose  and  nature  of  the  men  who  live  in  them,  and 
send  whatever  kind  of  vitality  they  may  possess  into 
effect  through  them. 

See  then  what  are  two  at  least  of  the  effects  that  a 
true  conversion  (which  means  nothing  less  than  the  fill- 
ing of  the  man  who  is  within  the  profession  with  an 
entire  sense  of  the  love  of  God  and  a  profound  love  of 
answering  gratitude  in  return)  must  have  upon  the  pro- 
fessional and  technical  life, — the  life  in  certain  arts 
and  occupations  of  which  the  world  must  necessarily 
be  full. 

First,  It  must  purify  all  the  professions.  It  must  re- 
ject and,  as  it  were,  turn  away  from  each  profession 
everything  which  is  not  capable  of  being  filled  and  in- 
spired with  this  spirit.  So  it  becomes  a  judgment  for 
us  all.  It  melts  away  the  dross  and  leaves  the  gold. 
It  makes  the  man,  first  of  all,  purely  the  thing  he  means 
to  be,  without  admixture  of  base  and  foreign  elements 
which  are  corruption. 

Then,  secondly.  It  makes  the  professions  to  be  no 
longer  means  of  separation,  but  means  of  sympathy  and 
union  between  men.  My  profession  is  totally  different 
from  yours.  What  then  ?  If  we  fasten  our  thoughts 
upon  our  diverse  methods  of  activity,  the  harder  each 


Tlie  Beloved  Physician.  227 

works  in  his  profession  the  more  our  lives  are  separated 
each  from  each.  If  both  of  us  feel  always  beating 
through  our  diverse  methods  of  activity  the  common 
purpose  of  the  love  of  God,  then  the  harder  we  work  in 
different  ways  the  more  our  lives  are  one.  This  is  the 
promise  of  a  future  in  which  specialized  action  shall 
not  merely  be  consistent  with  but  shall  help  forward 
the  realized  brotherhood  of  man. 

I  look  abroad  upon  the  men  who  are  gathered  here 
this  morning.  I  know  how  almost  all  of  you  are  closely 
identified  with  some  one  among  the  many  occupations 
and  professions  which  together  make  up  the  active  life 
of  men.  I  know  that  not  one  of  you  who  is  at  all 
thoughtful  has  failed  to  feel  how  this  division  of  labor 
has  its  dangers.  You  have  feared  corruption, —  that  is, 
the  loss  or  overlaying  by  baser  accretions  of  the  pure 
idea  of  your  work ;  and  you  have  feared  narrowness,  — 
the  loss  of  broad  human  sympathy  in  the  inevitable 
provincialness  of  what  you  have  to  do.  Where  is  your 
safeguard  against  these  things  which  you  fear  ?  Shall 
you  give  up  the  life  of  your  profession  and  simply  be  a 
man  at  large  ?  That  you  cannot  do ;  and  if  you  could  it 
would  not  be  good  for  most  men,  however  it  might  an- 
swer for  a  few.  Probably  it  would  not  be  good  for  you. 
No,  not  by  deserting  your  profession  but  by  deepening 
it,  by  seeking  a  new  life  under  it,  by  praying  for  and 
never  resting  satisfied  until  you  find  regeneration,  — 
the  new  life  lived  by  the  faith  of  the  Son  of  God ;  so 
only  can  your  life  of  trade  or  art  or  profession  be  re- 
deemed ;  so  only  can  it  become  both  for  you  and  for  the 
world  a  blessed  thing.     The  necessary  labors  which  the 


228  The  Beloved  Physician. 

nature  of  man  and  his  relations  to  this  earth  demand, 
all  done  by  men  full  of  the  love  of  God,  and  each 
using  to  its  best  the  special  faculty  that  is  in  him, 
—  the  world  needs  no  other  millennium  than  that; 
and  that  millennium,  however  far  away  it  looks,  is 
not  impossible. 

I  have  spoken  at  length  about  professional  life  in 
general,  and  its  effect  upon  the  men  who  live  it.  Let 
me  say  a  little,  before  I  close,  about  the  special  profes- 
sional life  of  Luke,  the  beloved  physician,  especially 
as  it  is  linked  to  the  life  of  the  Apostle  Paul.  As  he 
and  Paul  are  seen  travelling  on  together  over  land  and 
sea,  those  two  figures  taken  together  represent  in  a 
broad  way  the  total  care  of  man  for  man.  Paul  is  dis- 
tinctively a  man  of  the  soul,  a  man  of  the  spiritual  life. 
We  know  him  only  in  his  spiritual  labors.  If  he  turns 
aside  to  tent-making,  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of  the  tents 
which  he  can  make,  but  simply  that,  earning  his  own 
living,  he  may  be  in  true  relations  to  the  men  whose 
souls  he  wants  to  save.  Luke,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
physical.  His  care  is  for  the  body.  The  two  together, 
then,  as  we  watch  their  figures,  climbing  side  by  side 
over  mountains,  sleeping  side  by  side  on  the  decks  of 
little  Mediterranean  boats,  standing  side  by  side  in  the 
midst  of  little  groups  of  hard-won  disciples,  —  may  we 
not  say  of  them  that  they  may  be  considered  as  recog- 
nizing and  representing  between  them  the  double  nature 
and  the  double  need  of  man  ?  Body  and  soul  as  man  is, 
the  ministry  that  would  redeem  him  and  relieve  him 
must  have  a  word  to  speak  to,  and  a  hand  to  lay  upon, 


The  Beloved  Physician.  229 

both  soul  and  body.  The  two  missionaries  together 
make  a  sort  of  composite  copy  of  the  picture  which 
Saint  Matthew  gives  us  of  Jesus  going  "  about  all  Gali- 
lee, teaching  in  their  synagogues  and  preaching  the 
Gospel  of  the  Kingdom,  and  healing  all  manner  of 
disease  among  the  people. " 

It  is  interesting,  I  think,  to  see  how  this  belonging  to- 
gether of  the  two  activities  was  so  natural  and  genuine 
that  they  were  not  satisfied  with  being  represented  in 
two  separate  men,  —  each  activity  keeping  its  own  man 
to  itself,  and  the  total  being  made  up  only  by  combina- 
tion of  the  two,  —  but  tried  to  crowd  themselves,  as 
it  were,  both  together  into  each  man  of  the  travelling 
company  of  two.  Thus  Luke  the  physician  was  a 
preacher  and  a  teacher  also,  as  well  as  Paul;  and  as 
they  journey  together  Paul  is  pondering,  and  no  doubt 
sometimes  discussing  with  his  medical  companion 
those  great  ideas  of  the  sacredness  of  the  body  —  the 
body  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost  —  and  the  entire 
man,  body,  soul,  and  spirit,  needing  to  be  consecrated 
to  God  as  one  entire  sacrifice,  which  he  was  always  writ- 
ing in  his  letters  to  his  churches. 

This  need  of  unity  in  the  care  for  man  is  always  reas- 
serting itself.  There  is  no  true  care  for  the  body  which 
forgets  the  soul.  There  is  no  true  care  for  the  soul 
which  is  not  mindful  of  the  body.  The  pressure  of  psy- 
chology on  physiology,  the  wise  and  learned,  also  the 
unwise  and  ignorant,  methods  of  reaching  physical  con- 
ditions through  the  change  of  mental  states  which  are 
so  prominent  in  the  medical  practice  of  to-day,  bear 
witness  to  the  first  fact.     All  the  kind  of  teaching 


230  The  Beloved  Physician. 

which  a  few  years  ago  went  by  the  name  of  muscular 
Christianity  gives  testimony  to  the  second. 

It  certainly  is  not  aside  from  the  purpose  if  I  beg  you 
to  remember  how  the  two  ought  to  go  together  in  your 
treatment  of  your  own  lives.  The  duty  of  physical 
health  and  the  duty  of  spiritual  purity  and  loftiness  are 
not  two  duties;  they  are  two  parts  of  one  duty, —  which 
is  the  living  of  the  completest  life  which  it  is  possible 
for  man  to  live.  And  the  two  parts  minister  to  one 
another.  Be  good  that  you  may  be  well ;  be  well  that 
you  may  be  good.  Both  of  those  two  injunctions  are 
reasonable,  and  both  are  binding  on  us  all.  Sometimes 
on  one  side  come  exceptions.  Sometimes  a  man  must 
give  up  being  well  in  order  to  be  good.  Never  does  an 
exception  come  upon  the  other  side.  Never  is  a  man 
at  liberty  to  give  up  being  good  in  order  to  be  well; 
but  the  normal  life  of  man  needs  to  be  lived  in  obedi- 
ence to  both  commands.  Both  Paul  and  Luke  —  or 
rather  the  whole  of  Luke  and  the  whole  of  Paul  —  must 
be  its  masters. 

The  way  in  which  the  care  for  the  body  and  the  care 
for  the  soul  belong  together,  the  way  in  which  Luke 
and  Paul  have  the  same  work  to  do,  is  indicated  per- 
haps by  the  similarity  of  the  vices  to  which  both  minis- 
tries are  liable.  Theology  and  medicine,  the  minister 
and  the  doctor,  make  the  same  mistakes.  Both  of  them 
are  liable  to  lose  sight  of  their  ends  in  their  means, 
and  to  elaborate  their  systems  with  a  cruel  heartless- 
ness,  forgetting  for  the  moment  the  purposes  of  mercy 
which  are  their  warrant  for  existence.  Thus  theology 
has  driven  human  souls  into  exquisite  agony  with  its 


Tlie  Beloved  Physician.  231 

cold  dissection  of  the  most  sacred  feelings ;  and  medi- 
cine has  tortured  sensitive  animals  in  a  recklessness 
of  scientific  vivisection  which  has  no  relation,  direct  or 
indirect,  to  human  good.  Again  both  ministries  to  man 
have  been  misled  from  time  to  time  into  a  sacrifice  of 
the  plain  and  primary  obligations  of  truthfulness  to 
what  the  minister  or  doctor  has  dared  to  think  a  higher 
obligation.  That  which  with  more  or  less  of  justice  has 
been  called  Jesuitism  in  religion  on  the  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  side  the  physician's  perversion  or  denial  of 
the  simple  truth  at  the  bed-side  of  his  patient,  — both 
of  these  moral  wrongs,  both  of  these  indefensible  sins, 
bear  close  relation  to  the  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  his 
trust  which  is  in  the  heart  of  the  modern  Paul  or  Luke. 
And  yet  again,  the  narrowness  of  both,  the  stout  and 
obstinate  guard  over  their  orthodoxy,  the  unwillingness 
that  the  work  they  loved  should  be  done  in  any  but  the 
way  that  they  approved,  the  anger  with  irregular  prac- 
titioners, —  who  shall  say  which,  the  minister  or  the 
doctor,  has  borne  the  palm  in  these  ? 

But  if  these  close-united  ministries  share  the  same 
vices,  and  so  prove  that  they  are  one,  what  a  far  richer 
testimony  to  their  oneness  lies  in  the  virtues  which 
they  have  in  common.  I  have  said  this  morning  that 
every  honest  occupation  was  to  be  considered  as  a  chan- 
nel of  utterance  for  the  divine  life  in  the  character  and 
soul  of  the  man  who  exercised  it;  but  while  this  is 
true  of  all  professions,  there  is  still  a  difference  in  the 
degree  of  readiness  and  fulness  with  which  different 
professions  may  give  utterance  to  the  inner  fire.  In 
some  the  crust  of  technical  methods  is  more  transpa- 


232  The  Beloved  Physician. 

rent  than  in  others.  In  some  the  volcano  torch,  out  of 
which  the  inner  fire  is  to  blaze,  is  held  up  supremely 
high.  May  we  not  say  this  of  the  two  works  which  we 
are  to-day  taking  Paul  and  Luke  to  represent:  that, 
first,  they  above  all  others  demand,  as  of  fundamental 
importance,  character  in  the  men  who  do  them;  and 
that,  second,  the  element  of  merciful  feeling  and  readi- 
ness for  self-sacrifice  which  are  incidental  to  most  other 
occupations  are  essential  and  indispensable  in  these  two? 
These  are  what  really  mark  how  divine  they  are,  and 
how  they  belong  together.  Neither  of  them  can  pros- 
per with  any  true  prosperity  save  in  the  hands  of  a  man 
of  goodness  and  of  strength ;  and  in  both  of  them  the 
fountain  of  pity  is  the  only  source  of  pure  and  unfailing 
life.  I  add  to  this  that  both  live  constantly  in  the  im- 
mediate presence  of  awful  and  mysterious  forces;  that 
both  are  always,  while  they  see  before  them  human 
need,  feeling  behind  them  that  which,  call  it  by  what 
name  they  will,  is  Divine  Power  —  is  God ;  and  so  are 
always  pressed  on  by  the  demand  for  reverence  and 
piety. 

I  add  again  that  while  each  has  its  immediate  appeal 
to  make  to  terror  and  the  fear  of  pain,  the  ultimate 
address  of  each  must  be  to  ardent  courage  and  enthu- 
siastic hope.  I  put  all  these  together  and  then  the  fig- 
ures of  Paul  and  Luke  walking  together  through  history 
as  the  ministers  of  Christ,  —  the  images  of  theology  and 
medicine  laboring  in  harmony  for  the  redemption  of 
man,  for  the  saving  of  body,  soul,  and  spirit,  — become 
very  sacred  and  impressive.  May  their  fellowship  be- 
come more   generous  and  hearty  as  the  years  go   on! 


The  Beloved  Physician.  233 

May  each  gain  greater  honor  for  the  other,  and  both 
become  more  humbly  and  transparently  the  ministers 
of  Christ !  Thus  may  the  two  together,  working  as  if 
they  were  but  one,  grow  to  be  more  and  more  a  worthy 
channel  through  which  the  helpfulness  of  God  may  flow 
forth  to  the  neediness  of  man. 


XIV. 
DEEP  CALLING  UNTO  DEEP. 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep.  —  Psalm  xlii.  7. 

In  one  of  the  most  spiritual  of  David's  Psalms  there 
come,  almost  incidentally  as  it  were,  the  most  striking 
pictures  of  external  Nature.  He  begins  by  singing, 
"  Like  as  the  hart  desireth  the  water-brooks,  so  longeth 
my  soul  after  Thee,  0  God. "  Then  he  goes  on  to  that 
profound  remonstrance  with  his  own  oppressed  and  mel- 
ancholy heart.  "Why  art  thou  so  full  of  heaviness, 
0  my  soul  ?  Why  art  thou  so  disquieted  within  me  ?  " 
And  then  comes  his  great  appeal  to  God  in  Nature,  — 
"  Therefore  will  I  remember  Thee  concerning  the  land 
of  Jordan  and  the  little  hill  of  Hermon.  Deep  calleth 
unto  deep  at  the  noise  of  Thy  waterspouts."  It  is 
partly  a  recollection  of  the  causes  of  his  gratitude. 
It  is  a  remembrance  of  how  Jordan  and  Hermon  had 
witnessed  God's  goodness  to  him;  but  it  is  also  the 
effort  to  lose  his  own  spiritual  vexations  in  the  vast- 
ness  and  majesty  of  the  scenes  and  the  phenomena  of 
natural  life.  He  would  put  his  own  personal  woe  where 
the  billows  and  the  tides  are  sweeping  and  beating 
across  one  another,  and  make  it  sensible  in  their  move- 
ment of  the  larger  world  of  which  it  is  a  part,  and  in 
whose  whole  there  is  peace. 


Dee'p  Calling  unto  Deep.  235 

This  is  the  way  in  which  David's  descriptions  of  Na- 
ture come  about.  He  is  no  word-painter  depicting  the 
beautiful  majestic  world  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  the 
exercise  of  his  literary  skill.  It  is  all  a  spiritual  expe- 
rience. "The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and 
the  firmament  showeth  His  handiwork."  It  is  God 
and  peace  and  holiness  which  his  soul  is  seeking  when 
he  climbs  the  mountain,  or  stands  under  the  starry 
heavens,  or  is  tossed  on  the  tumult  of  the  resistless 
sea. 

We  all  know  something  of  what  was  in  the  great 
man's  heart.  We  have  all  taken  a  sorrow  or  a  perplex- 
ity out  into  the  noontide  or  the  midnight  and  felt  its 
morbid  bitterness  drawn  out  of  it,  and  a  great  peace 
descend  and  fill  it  from  the  depth  of  the  majesty  imder 
whose  arch  we  stood.  It  was  not  consolation.  That 
can  come  only  through  the  intelligence  and  reason,  or 
through  personal  sympathy  and  love.  The  sweet  and 
solemn  influence  which  comes  to  you  out  of  the  noon- 
tide or  the  midnight  sky  does  not  take  away  your  pain, 
but  it  takes  out  of  it  its  bitterness.  It  lifts  it  to  a 
higher  peace.  It  says,  "Be  still  and  wait."  It  gives 
the  reason  power  and  leave  and  time  to  work.  It 
gathers  the  partial  into  the  embrace  of  the  universal. 
It  fills  the  little  with  the  large.  Without  mockery  or 
scorn  it  reminds  the  small  that  it  is  small.  The  atom 
floating  on  the  surface  hears  deep  calling  unto  deep  be- 
low, and  forgets  its  own  restlessness  and  homelessness 
in  listening. 

This  was  what  Nature  in  our  Psalm  is  seen  doing 
for  the  spiritual  life  of  David.     But  that  is  not  what  I 


236  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep. 

want  to  speak  about  to-day,  although  I  could  not  help 
alluding  to  it  as  it  gives  so  rich  a  character  to  our 
Psalm. 

I  want  to  take  now  these  words  by  themselves,  — 
"  Deep  calleth  unto  deep, "  —  and  let  them  suggest  to  us 
some  thoughts  with  regard  to  man's  relation  to  the 
world  and  his  true  way  of  living  in  it,  which  I  hope 
will  not  be  without  their  value.  "Deep  calleth  unto 
deep. "  It  is  the  profound  responsiveness  of  life  which 
those  words  utter.  If  some  great  natural  philosopher 
were  to  speak  to  us,  no  doubt  he  could  tell  us  of  the 
way  in  which  even  in  physical  nature  what  they  suggest 
is  true ;  of  how  there  is  no  force  which  does  not  corre- 
spond with  other  forces,  and  find  the  reason  of  its  own 
existence  in  its  relationship  to  them.  For  such  a  great 
rich  topic  as  that,  I  have  no  fitness.  But  there  is  an- 
other responsiveness,  — the  responsiveness  of  the  life  of 
man,  the  responsiveness  of  the  world  and  the  human 
nature  which  inhabits  it  to  one  another,  which  is  also 
worthy  of  our  study.  And  it  is  of  that  that  I  desire  to 
speak. 

How  clear  they  are,  and  how  they  call  and  answer  to 
each  other,  —  the  world  and  man !  The  world,  —  this 
aggregate  of  conditions  and  phenomena  and  events,  this 
multitudinous  complexity  of  things  which  happen  as 
old  habits  to  which  the  gray  old  earth  has  long  been 
used,  and  other  things  which  come  with  sharp  and 
strange  surprise  and  unexpectedness,  as  if  they  never 
had  occurred  before ;  the  world,  — this  crowd  of  circum- 
stances, with  a  certain  subtle  spirit  and  identity  and 
law  pervading  it ;  this  world,  living  and  yet  dead,  dead 


Deep  Calling  unto  Deep.  237 

and  yet  living,  —  at  one  moment  a  thing  of  mere  mate- 
rial of  wood  and  rock  and  water,  at  the  next  moment  a 
thing  all  instinct  with  quickness  and  vitality;  the 
world  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  man,  sensitive  and 
eager,  ready  to  respond,  often  responding  even  when  no 
one  speaks  to  him,  —  man  who  seems  sometimes  to  be 
only  the  chief  of  animals,  sprung  as  it  were  out  of  the 
very  substance  of  the  world  itself,  and  then  at  other 
times  seeming  to  carry  on  his  forehead  the  star  of  a 
supremacy  and  an  authority  almost  divine,  —  this  world 
and  this  man,  behold  them  standing  and  looking  each 
other  in  the  face,  and  listening  for  one  another's  words ! 
The  world  hears  the  man.  It  answers  him  with  its 
obediences.  It  responds  to  his  advancing  character. 
It  holds  its  resources  ready  as  he  grows  fit  to  call  for 
them.  But  even  more  sensitively  the  man  hears  the 
world.  The  mass  and  crowd  of  things  abound  in  in- 
fluences which  pour  forth  and  tell  upon  the  human  creat- 
ure's life.  Its  slightest  wnisper  fills  him  with  emotion 
and  works  upon  his  sensitive  will.  Almost  we  can 
think  of  the  angelic  beings  which  are  in  the  heavens, 
full  of  sympathy,  bending  and  listening  to  this  converse 
between  man  and  his  world,  between  each  man  and  his 
circumstances,  and  knowing  how  it  fares  with  him  by 
the  way  in  which  they  speak  to  him  and  the  way  in 
which  he  answers. 

But  then,  to  take  another  step,  when  we  look  some- 
what closer  at  the  world  and  at  man,  we  find  this 
other  thing,  —  that  both  in  the  world  and  in  man  there 
are  profounder  and  there  are  more  superficial  parts, 
there  are  depths  and  shallows ;  and  that  it  makes  great 


238  Veep  Calling  unto  Deep. 

and  most  critical  difference  which  part  of  the  world  it  is 
that  speaks  to  which  part  of  the  man.  The  world  is  deep 
or  shallow.  How  deep  it  is !  What  solemn  and  per- 
plexing questions  come  up  out  of  its  darknesses !  How 
it  is  always  on  the  point  of  vast  changes,  terrible  explo- 
sions !  How  character  is  alwaj^s  being  moulded  by  the 
powers  which  it  contains !  How  souls  seem  to  change 
their  whole  nature  as  they  pass  through  its  furnaces! 
And  yet  change  your  point  of  view  and  what  a  shallow 
thing  the  world  is !  How  its  changes  chase  one  an- 
other almost  like  the  idle  alternation  of  joy  and  sorrow 
on  the  face  of  a  child !  How  much  happens  in  the  State 
and  in  society,  and  in  the  schools,  which  comes  to 
nothing!  What  a  waving  of  lights  and  jingling  of 
bells  and  playing  at  hide-and-seek  of  waves  upon  the 
sea  a  large  part  of  this  perpetual  activity  appears. 

And  not  only  the  world  but  man  as  well  is  deep  or 
shallow.  How  deep  he  is!  What  struggles  may  tear 
the  very  foundations  of  his  life  asunder !  On  the  other 
hand,  what  peace  which  passeth  understanding  may  lie 
like  a  great  ocean  underneath  the  surface  turmoil  of 
his  days.  How  profoundly  he  can  suffer;  how  pro- 
foundly he  can  enjoy !  What  rich  things  are  his  con- 
science and  his  will !  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  when 
it  seems  as  if  all  the  universe  were  in  him;  when  it 
seems  as  if  he  were  as  high  as  heaven  and  as  low  as 
hell ;  when  the  music  of  his  nature  seems  to  be  full  of 
the  intensest  passion  which  out-goes  expression,  — how 
he  will  begin,  all  of  a  sudden,  to  chatter  like  a  bird! 
How  nothing  is  too  light  for  him !  How  he  will  play 
with  straws  and  chase  shadows  across  the  fields !    Hoir 


Beejp  Calling  unto  Deep.  239 

he  will  make  life  a  frolic,  and  refuse  to  be  serious  even 
when  the  heaviest  shadows  fill  the  solemn  sky ! 

Thus  both  the  two,  —  the  world  and  man,  whose  con- 
verse with  each  other  makes  the  history  and  poetry,  the 
comedy  and  tragedy  of  this  planet  whereon  we  live,  — 
both  of  them  have  their  depths  and  their  shallows. 
Each  olthem  is  capable  of  seeming  profound  and  rich 
and  serious  or  superficial  and  meagre  and  trivial.  And 
all  this  makes  their  talk  with  one  another,  their  influ- 
ence on  one  another,  endlessly  interesting  and  pathetic. 
It  is  the  noblest  and  completest  form  of  their  inter- 
course —  the  intercourse  of  the  world  and  man  —  which 
has  seemed  to  me  to  be  suggested  by  the  words  from 
David's  Psalm.  When  the  strongest  powers  of  man  are 
brought  out  by  the  greatest  exigencies  of  life;  when 
what  a  man  can  do  is  tested  to  the  very  bottom  by  the 
most  awful  or  splendid  exhibition  of  what  the  world 
can  be ;  when  a  man  stands  amazed  himself  at  the  pa- 
tience and  courage  and  resource  which  comes  welling 
up  in  his  soul  at  the  demand  of  some  great  suffering  or 
some  great  opportunity  of  his  fellow-men,  —  could  there 
be  words  which  could  describe  the  great  scene  better 
than  these,   "  Deep  calleth  unto  deep  ?  " 

It  may  be  in  the  region  of  thought  or  in  the  region  of 
action ;  it  may  be  a  great  problem  awakening  the  pro- 
foundest  intelligence,  and  saying,  "  Come,  find  my  solu- 
tion," or  it  may  be  a  great  task  summoning  the  active 
powers,  and  saying,  "  Come,  do  me ; "  it  may  be  in  an 
excitement  and  a  tumult  which  shakes  the  nature 
through  and  through,  or  it  may  be  in  a  serene  and 
open  calmness  which   means   more   than   any  tumult. 


240  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep. 

The  form  is  nothing ;  the  substance  of  the  experience  is 
everything.  When  the  supreme  demand  of  life  calls  out 
the  supreme  capacity  of  man,  then  it  is  that  the  pict- 
ure of  the  waves  is  fulfilled  in  spiritual  life  and  "  Deep 
calleth  unto  deep. " 

It  is  a  great  inspiring  spectacle  when  this  is  seen 
taking  place  in  a  young  man's  life.  There  is  a  beauti- 
ful exhilaration  in  it.  The  mysterious  world  lifts  up 
its  voice  and  asks  its  old  unanswered  questions,  — 
problems  which  have  puzzled  all  the  generations  which 
have  come  and  gone,  lo !  they  are  not  dead.  They  are 
still  alive.  They  lift  up  their  undiscouraged  voice  and 
ask  themselves  anew  of  this  new-comer,  and  he  with 
his  audacious  heart  accepts  their  challenge.  All  that 
is  most  serious  and  earnest  in  him  tells  him  that  their 
answers  must  be  somewhere.  His  clear  eyes  question 
them  with  hope.  Perhaps  he  can  find  what  all  who 
have  gone  before  have  failed  to  find.  So  the  best  which 
the  young  man  is  leaps  to  wrestle  with  the  hardest  which 
the  world  can  show ;  so  deep  answereth  to  deep. 

At  the  other  end  of  life  the  same  thing  comes,  only 
in  another  way.  When  the  great  shadow  of  the  earth 
lies  on  the  old  man's  soul,  and  the  light  of  the  life  be- 
yond is  gathering  in  the  western  sky;  when  wonder 
deepens  and  great  questions  swarm  and  the  supreme 
problem,  "  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  stares  out  at  him 
from  all  familiar  things,  —  how  often  then  a  patience 
and  a  faith,  a  love  and  trust  and  spiritual  certainty 
come  forth  which  all  the  life  has  been  preparing  uncon- 
sciously ;  and  in  the  silent  days  which  wait  the  end,  the 
soul  hears  the  eternity,  and  "  Deep  calleth  unto  deep. " 


Deep  Calling  unto  Deep.  241 

I  speak  of  notable  periods  which  are,  as  it  were, 
emergencies  of  life ;  but  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that 
this  dealing  of  the  deepest  part  of  us  with  the  deepest 
part  of  the  world  were  confined  to  critical  occasions 
and  solemn  or  enthusiastic  days.  I  should  be  sorry  not 
to  think  that  there  are  lives  in  which  it  is  habitual. 
There  are  men,  not  oppressed  and  gloomy,  but  serious 
and  happy,  whose  deepest  thought  is  always  busy  with 
the  deepest  things.  Very  unhappy  is  the  man  who 
never  knows  such  converse.  Happiest  of  all  is  he  for 
whom  it  starts  without  surprise  at  any  moment,  who 
is  always  ready  to  give  his  deepest  thought  to  deep- 
est questions  and  his  strongest  powers  to  the  hardest 
tasks. 

This  then  is  what  we  mean  by  deep  calling  unto  deep. 
You  see  what  kind  of  life  it  makes.  There  is  another 
kind  of  life  by  contrast  with  which  this  kind  may  per- 
haps best  be  understood.  There  is  a  life  to  which  the 
world  seems  easy,  and  so  in  which  the  strongest  powers 
of  the  human  nature  are  not  stirred.  I  call  that  the 
life  in  which  shallow  calleth  unto  shallow.  Like  little 
pools  lying  in  the  rock,  none  of  them  more  than  an  inch 
deep,  all  of  them  rippling  and  twinkling  in  the  sun- 
shine and  the  breeze,  —  so  lie  the  small  interests  of  the 
world  and  the  small  powers  of  man ;  and  they  talk  with 
one  another,  and  one  perfectly  answers  the  demands 
which  the  other  makes.  Do  you  not  know  all  that  ?  The 
world  simply  as  a  place  of  enjoyment  summons  man 
simply  as  a  being  capable  of  enjoyment.  The  whole 
relationship  gets  no  deeper  than  that.  The  material  of 
pleasure  or  of  pride  cries  to  the  power  of  pleasure  or 

16 


242  Dee'p  Calling  unto  Deep. 

of  pride,  "Come,  be  pleased,"  or  "Come,  be  proud." 
It  is  the  invitation  of  the  surface  to  the  surface,  —  of 
the  surface  of  the  world  to  the  surface  of  the  man. 

What  shall  we  say  of  this  ?  It  is  real.  It  is  legiti^ 
mate.  In  its  degree  and  its  proportion  it  is  good ;  but 
made  the  whole  of  life  and  cut  off  from  connection  with 
the  deeper  converse  between  the  world  and  the  soul,  it 
is  dreadful.  The  world  does  say  to  us,  "  Enjoy ;"  and 
it  is  good  for  us  to  hear  her  invitation.  But  for  the 
world  to  say,  and  for  us  to  hear,  nothing  better  or 
deeper  than  "  Enjoy"  is  to  turn  the  relation  between  the 
world  and  man  into  something  hardly  better  than  that 
which  exists  between  the  corn-field  and  the  crows.  It 
is  clothing  oneself  with  cobwebs.  Only  when  the 
deeper  communion,  rich  and  full  and  strong,  is  going 
on  below,  between  the  depths  of  life  and  the  depths  of 
man,  —  only  then  is  the  surface  communion  healthy  and 
natural  and  good.  He  who  is  always  hearing  and  an- 
swering the  call  of  life  to  be  thoughtful  and  brave  and 
self-sacrificing,  —  he  alone  can  safely  hear  the  other  cry 
of  life,  tempting  him  to  be  happy  and  enjoy. 

But  look  !  What  multitudes  of  men  have  ears  only  for 
the  summons  to  enjoyment,  who  never  once  seem  to 
hear  the  call  to  righteousness  and  self-sacrifice  and 
truth.  Look  at  the  devotees  of  art  to  whom  it  is  never 
more  than  a  mere  vehicle  of  pleasure.  Look  at  the 
slaves  of  society  who  never  make  it  their  slave  by 
compelling  it  to  make  them  generous  and  good.  Look 
at  the  business-men  who  never  make  anything  out  of 
their  business  except  money.  It  is  shallow  calling 
unto  shallow.     It  is  the  tinkling  clatter  of  the  lighter 


4 


Deep  Calling  unto  Deep.  243 

instruments  with  no  deep  thunder  of  the  organ  down 
below,  and  oh,  how  wearisome  it  grows ! 

But  there  are  two  other  wrong  and  bad  relations  be- 
tween man  and  the  world  he  lives  in,  which  result  of 
necessity  from  what  we  saw,  —  that  both  the  world  and 
man  have  their  shallows  and  their  depths.  I  have 
spoken  of  deep  calling  upon  deep,  which  is  great  and 
noble;  and  of  shallow  calling  upon  shallow,  which  is 
unsatisfactory  and  weak.  The  words  of  David  suggest 
to  me  also  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  deep  calling 
unto  shallow, — by  which  I  mean,  of  course,  the  pro- 
found and  sacred  interests  of  life  crying  out  and  find- 
ing nothing  but  the  slight  and  foolish  and  selfish  parts 
of  a  man  ready  to  reply.  There  are  a  host  of  men  who 
will  not  leave  great  themes  and  tasks  alone  and  be  con- 
tent to  live  trivially  among  trivial  things.  They  are 
too  enterprising,  too  alive  for  that.  You  cannot  re- 
duce them  to  mere  dilettantes  of  the  galleries,  or  ex- 
quisites of  the  parlors,  or  book-keepers  of  the  exchange ; 
they  will  meddle  with  the  eternities  and  the  profundi- 
ties. They  have  perception  enough  to  hear  the  great 
questions  and  see  the  great  tasks;  but  they  have  not 
earnestness  and  self-control  enough  to  answer  them  with 
serious  thought  and  strong  endeavor ;  so  they  sing  their 
answer  to  the  thunder,  which  is  not  satisfied  or  answered. 
This  is  what  I  mean  by  deep  calling  unto  shallow. 

If  you  do  not  understand  what  I  am  thinking  of,  con- 
sider what  you  see  in  politics.  Is  there  a  greater  call 
than  that  which  comes  out  of  the  depths  of  a  nation's 
needs  ?  "  Tell  me  what  this  means,  and  that,  in  my  ex- 
perience.    Tell  me  how  I  shall  get  rid  of  this  corrup- 


244  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep. 


\ 


tion  and  that  danger.  Tell  me  how  I  can  best  be 
governed.  Help  me  to  self-control."  These  are  the 
appeals  which  come  out  of  the  nation's  heart  of  hearts. 
And  what  is  it  that  they  find  to  cry  to  ?  In  part,  at 
least,  are  they  not  answered  back  by  personal  ambi- 
tions, by  party  spirit,  by  the  trickery  of  selfishness, 
and  by  the  base  love  of  management?  This  is  the  mis- 
ery of  politics,  — the  disproportion  between  the  inter- 
ests which  are  at  stake  and  the  men  and  machineries 
which  deal  with  them.  Those  interests  need  the  pro- 
foimdest  thought  and  the  most  absolute  devotion.  In 
some  degree  they  get  it;  but  how  often  what  they  get 
is  only  prejudice  and  passion,  —  the  lightest,  least  rea- 
sonable, most  superficial  action  of  our  human  nature. 

If  we  turn  to  religion,  the  same  thing  is  true  there 
as  well.  What  does  it  mean  when  out  of  the  profound 
realities  of  the  soul,  of  God,  of  life,  of  death,  of  immor- 
tality, of  duty,  there  rises  to  the  surface  and  flaunts 
itself  in  the  astonished  gaze  of  men  —  what  ?  The  ban- 
ner of  a  denominational  pride,  or  the  ribbons  of  a  ritu- 
alistic decoration,  or  the  rigidities  of  formal  dogma. 
Listen  to  what  men  call  a  religious  discussion.  Is  this 
captiousness,  this  desire  to  get  the  advantage  of  an  ad- 
versary, this  delight  in  making  hits,  this  passion  for 
machinery,  this  mixture  of  the  false  with  the  true,  — 
is  this  the  utterance  in  human  speech  of  the  overwhelm- 
ing dangers,  the  overwhelming  opportunities  of  the  soul 
of  man  ?  The  religious  newspaper  and  the  religious 
convention  are  often  the  least  religious  of  all  the  jour- 
nals and  meetings,  the  least  exalted  in  their  spirit,  the 
most  sordid  and  worldly  in  their  tone. 


Beejp  Calling  unto  Deep.  245 

I  find  the  same  regarding  truth  of  every  kind.  Truth 
and  the  search  for  truth  are  the  great  food  and  disci- 
pline of  human  nature.  Good  is  it  when  a  man,  sweep- 
ing around  some  sudden  corner  of  his  life,  sees  looming 
up  before  him  a  truth  which  he  has  not  known  before. 
He  has  grown  used  to  the  old  truth ;  here  is  another  of 
another  kind.     How  great  the  moment  is ! 

"  Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken. 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific,  —  and  all  his  men 

Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise,  — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien." 

In  the  heart  of  the  finder  of  the  new  truth,  as  in  the 
heart  of  the  discoverer  of  the  new  ocean,  new  chambers 
open  for  the  new-comer  to  abide  in ;  new  engineries  of 
power  leap  to  life  for  the  new  truth  to  use.  All  this 
sometimes.  But  sometimes  also  the  new  truth  stirs 
nothing  but  new  jealousies  and  vanities.  A  new  law 
opens  out  of  the  complexity  of  Nature  and  sometimes 
—  not  often,  let  us  be  proud  to  claim  —  the  naturalists 
stand  quarrelling  which  it  was  that  saw  it  first.  A  new 
view  of  life,  a  new  religion  which  is  very  old,  is  brought 
by  some  disciple  of  it  from  his  ancient  home,  and  the 
best  use  which  we  can  find  to  make  of  it  is  to  use  it  for 
the  attraction  and  stimulus  of  our  flagging  social  ex- 
istence, to  discuss  it  in  our  aesthetic  clubs,  and  to  pre- 
tend dilettante  conversions  to  it  before  we  have  taken 
pains  to  understand  what  it  really  means. 

Everywhere  the  deep  calls  to  the  shallow,  and  the 
shallow  answers  with  its  competent  and  flippant  tongue. 


246  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep. 

It  is  earnest  questions  dealt  with  by  unearnest  men 
and  in  unearnest  ways  which  make  a  large  part  of 
the  darkness  of  the  world.  "If  he  would  only  let  it 
alone,"  we  feel  a  thousand  times  when  some  flippant 
trifler  takes  up  some  solemn  theme  and  turns  it  easily 
round  and  round  between  his  thumb  and  finger.  "  Who 
are  these  that  darken  counsel  by  words  without  knowl- 
edge ? "  The  earnest  man  to  match  the  earnest  ques- 
tion !  When  he  comes  how  the  light  breaks !  Oh,  my 
dear  friends,  I  beg  you  listen  to  no  other.  When  deep 
calls  to  deep,  when  the  conscience  and  the  spiritual 
earnestness  of  any  man  —  whoever  he  be  —  talks  with 
truth,  draw  near  and  listen,  for  you  will  surely  get 
something;  if  not  great  wisdom,  from  the  earnest 
talker,  at  least  an  atmosphere  and  light  in  which  your 
own  wisdom  can  work  at  its  best.  But  when  deep  calls 
to  shallow,  when  man  deals  with  great  truth  in  a  little 
spirit  and  for  ends  of  little  selfishness  and  pride,  then 
turn  and  go  away ;  for  there  there  is  no  food  or  educa- 
tion for  your  soul. 

We  have  heard  the  deep  calling  to  the  shallow.  Now 
let  us  turn  for  a  few  moments  and,  with  another  ear, 
listen  to  the  shallow  calling  to  the  deep.  All  of  our 
treatment  of  this  imagery  will,  I  am  sure,  show  you 
what  I  mean  by  that.  When  the  mere  superficial 
things  of  life,  which  are  all  legitimate  enough  in  their 
true  places  and  enlisting  their  own  kind  of  interest,  as- 
pire to  lay  hold  of  man's  serious  anxiety  and  to  enlist 
his  earnest  thought,  then  there  is  born  a  sense  of  dis- 
proportion just  the  opposite  of  that  of  which  I  have  been 
speaking,  —  a  disproportion  which  seems  to  be  rightly 


Deep  Calling  unto  Deep.  247 


described  as  the  shallow  calling  to  the  deep.  If  we  are 
offended  when  eternity  calls  to  men,  and  men  chatter 
about  it  as  if  it  were  a  trifle ;  so  we  also  ought  to  be 
offended  when  some  trifle  speaks  to  them  and  they  look 
solemn  and  burdened  and  anxious  over  it,  and  discuss 
it  as  if  it  were  a  thing  of  everlasting  import.  Have  you 
never  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  world  of  fashion  and 
marvelled  how  it  was  possible  that  men  and  women 
should  care,  as  those  around  you  seemed  to  care,  about 
the  little  conventionalities  which  made  the  scenery  and 
problems  of  its  life  ?  Natural  enough  questions  many 
of  them  were,  necessary,  perhaps,  that  they  should  be 
settled  one  way  or  the  other,  but  certainly  questions  to 
be  settled  in  an  instant  and  forgotten,  —  questions  to 
be  settled  with  the  simplest  powers  and  the  least  anx- 
ious thought.  You  meet  your  friend  some  morning  and 
he  wears  an  anxious  face.  You  can  seem  to  see  into 
the  depths  of  his  being,  and  they  all  are  stirred.  You 
picture  to  yourself  some  awful  woe  which  has  befallen 
him.  You  seem  to  see  him  wrestling  like  Jacob  in 
Peniel  for  his  life.  You  stop  him  and  ask  what  is  the 
matter,  and  his  answer  tells  you  of  some  petty  dis- 
turbance of  the  household,  or  some  question  of  a  bar- 
gain he  has  made,  —  whether  it  will  turn  out  twenty-five 
or  thirty  per  cent  to  his  advantage.  Are  you  not  vexed 
with  a  vexation  that  is  almost  a  sense  of  personal 
grievance  ?  The  man  has  no  right  to  conceive  things  in 
such  disproportion.  A  man  has  no  right  to  give  to 
the  tint  on  his  parlor  walls  that  anxiety  of  thought 
which  belongs  only  to  the  justification  of  the  ways  of 
God  to  man.     And  why?     Mainly,  I  suppose,  because 


248  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep. 

the  man  who  has  expended  his  highest  powers  upon  the 
lightest  themes  has  no  new,  greater  seriousness  to  give 
to  the  great  problems  when  they  come,  and  so  either 
avoids  them  altogether  or  else,  by  a  strange  perversion, 
turns  back  and  gives  them  the  light  consideration 
which  was  what  he  ought  to  have  given  to  his  headache 
or  the  color  of  his  walls.  Very  often  the  man  in  whom 
the  shallow  calls  to  the  deep  is  the  same  man  in  whom 
also  the  deep  calls  to  the  shallow. 

There  is  a  noble  economy  of  the  deepest  life.  There 
is  a  watchful  reserve  which  lieeps  guard  over  the  pow- 
ers of  profound  anxiety  and  devoted  work,  and  refuses 
to  give  them  away  to  any  first  applicant  who  comes 
and  asks.  Wealth  rolls  up  to  the  door  and  says,  "  Give 
me  your  great  anxiety ; "  and  you  look  up  and  answer, 
"  No,  not  for  you ;  here  is  a  little  half-indifferent  desire 
which  is  all  that  you  deserve. "  Popularity  comes  and 
says,  "  Work  with  all  your  might  for  me ; "  and  you  re- 
ply, "  No ;  you  are  not  of  consequence  enough  for  that. 
Here  is  a  small  fragment  of  energy  which  you  may 
have,  if  you  want  it ;  but  that  is  all. "  Even  knowledge 
comes  and  says,  "  Give  your  whole  soul  to  me ; "  and 
you  must  answer  once  more,  "No;  great,  good,  beau- 
tiful as  you  are,  you  are  not  worthy  of  a  man's  whole 
soul.  There  is  something  in  a  man  so  sacred  and  so 
precious  that  he  must  keep  it  in  reserve  till  something 
even  greater  than  the  desire  of  knowledge  demands  it. " 
But  then  at  last  comes  One  far  more  majestic  than  them 
all,  —  God  comes  with  his  supreme  demand  for  goodness 
and  for  character,  and  then  you  open  the  doors  of  your 
whole  nature  and  bid  your  holiest  and  profoundest  devo' 


I 


Deep  Calling  unto  Deep.  249 


tion  to  come  trooping  forth.  Now  you  rejoice  that  you 
kept  something  which  you  would  not  give  to  any  lesser 
lord.  Now  here  is  the  deep  in  life  which  can  call  to 
the  deep  in  you  and  find  its  answer. 

Oh,  my  dear  friends,  at  least  do  this.  If  you  are  not 
ready  to  give  your  deepest  affections,  your  most  utter 
loyalty  to  God  and  Christ,  at  least  refuse  to  give  them 
to  any  other  master.  None  but  God  is  worthy  of  the 
total  offering  of  man !  Keep  your  sacredest  till  the  most 
sacred  claims.  The  very  fact  that  you  are  keeping  it 
unused  will  tempt  its  true  use  constantly,  and  by  and 
by  the  King  will  take  and  wear  the  crown  which  it  has 
been  forbidden  any  less  kingly  head  than  His  to  wear. 

I  think  that  there  are  men  to-day  who  are  living  in 
exactly  the  condition  I  describe.  Unable  to  find  God 
and  believe  in  Him  in  such  way  that  they  can  give 
themselves  to  Him,  they  yet  know  themselves  to  be 
possessed  of  powers  of  love  and  worship  and  obedience 
which  it  is  not  possible  for  them  to  exercise  toward  any 
but  a  God;  therefore  they  hold  these  powers  sacredly 
unused  and  wait.  They  know  their  lives  imperfect; 
but  they  will  not  try,  they  will  not  consent,  to  complete 
them  by  restriction  or  degradation.  If  part  of  the  great 
circle  is  yet  wanting,  they  will  hold  the  gap  open  and 
not  draw  the  line  in  to  fulfil  a  more  limited  circum- 
ference. To  all  such  waiting  souls  sooner  or  later  the 
satisfaction  must  be  given. 

Thus  I  have  tried  to  show  how  the  proportions  subsist 
or  fail  between  the  world  we  live  in  and  the  human 
soul.  See  what  the  various  conditions  are.  Sometimes 
deep  calls   to  deep,  and  man  matches  the  profoundest 


250  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep. 

exigencies  with  profound  emotions  and  actions ;  some- 
times shallow  calls  to  shallow,  and  then  there  is  the 
surface  life  of  ordinary  intercourse  and  easy  careless- 
ness; sometimes  deep  calls  to  shallow,  and  then  you 
see  men  trifling  with  eternal  things,  and  playing  on  the 
brink  of  awful  truths ;  sometimes  shallow  calls  to  deep, 
and  then  the  powers  which  ought  to  wrestle  with  the 
mightiest  problems  are  wasted  on  the  insignificant 
whims  and  fancies  of  the  hour. 

What  is  the  issue  of  it  all  ?  Does  it  not  sometimes 
seem  as  if  the  struggle  of  man's  history  was  toward  the 
establishment  of  the  true  proportion  between  man  and 
his  world,  and  as  if,  when  that  were  reached,  every  true 
man  and  his  world  would  be  saved  ?  There  is  a  slow 
revelation  going  on  by  which  men  are  learning  that  the 
effort  and  the  purpose  must  have  relation  to  each  other. 
"  Cast  not  your  pearls  before  swine ;  "  "  Render  to  Caesar 
that  which  is  Caesar's,  and  to  God  that  which  is 
God's ; "  "  This  ought  ye  to  have  done  and  not  to  leave 
the  other  undone, "  —  those  are  the  words  of  Christ 
which  teach  the  lesson  of  that  proportion.  He  who 
hears  those  words  cannot  waste  his  soul's  strength  on 
trifles,  nor  can  he  think  that  the  great  prizes  of  life  are 
to  be  had  without  a  struggle,  a  self-denial,  and  a 
patient  hope. 

There  are  abundant  signs  in  Jesus  of  how  completely 
that  proportion  was  maintained  in  His  own  life.  Men 
came  to  Him  with  selfish  little  questions  about  the 
division  of  inheritances,  and  He  would  not  waste  His 
time  upon  them;  but  Nicodemus  came  eager  for  spir- 
itual light,  and  Christ  would  sit  all  night  and  teach 


Deep  Calling  unto  Deep.  251 

him.  The  people  at  Nazareth  wanted  to  stone  Him, 
and  He  quietly  '^  ..oed  away  and  left  them  with  their 
stones  in  their  hands;  but  the  cross  demanded  Him, 
and  He  went  up  to  the  terrible  experience  with  a  soul 
consecrated  to  endure  it  all,  and  spared  Himself  not 
one  blow  of  the  scourge  upon  the  shoulders,  and  not 
one  piercing  of  the  nails  into  the  hands  and  feet.  He 
knew  what  was  worth  while;  and  He  knew  that  be- 
cause He  was  one  with  God,  the  Son  of  God  could  not 
count  the  great  little  nor  the  little  great.  That  was 
the  secret  of  His  perfect  life. 

If  we  can  live  in  Him  and  have  His  life  in  us,  shall 
not  the  spiritual  balance  and  proportion  which  were  His 
become  ours  too  ?  If  He  were  really  our  Master  and 
our  Saviour,  could  it  be  that  we  could  get  so  eager  and 
excited  over  little  things  ?  If  we  were  His,  could  we 
possibly  be  wretched  over  the  losing  of  a  little  money 
which  we  do  not  need,  or  be  exalted  at  the  sound  of  a 
little  praise  which  we  know  that  we  only  half  deserve 
and  that  the  praisers  only  half  intend  ?  A  moment's 
disappointment,  a  moment's  gratification,  and  then  the 
ocean  would  be  calm  again  and  quite  forgetful  of  the 
ripple  which  disturbed  its  bosom. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  we  were  His,  could  we  help 
giving  the  anxiety  which  we  refused  to  everything  be- 
side, to  spiritual  things  ?  When  the  deep  called,  must 
not  the  deep  reply  ? 

My  friends,  there  are  things  which  it  is  a  shame  and 
an  absurdity  for  any  earnest  man  to  care  about  with 
any  serious  care ;  but  there  are  other  things  about  which 
a  man  must  care  or  he  is  no  real  man.     Whether  he  is 


252  Deep  Calling  unto  Deep. 

good  and  honest ;  whether  he  is  getting  more  truth  and 
character;  whether  the  world  is  better  for  his  living; 
whether  he  is  finding  God,  —  God  help  us  to  care  for 
those  things  with  all  our  hearts.  They  are  the  things 
the  care  for  which  brings  us  into  the  company  of  noble 
souls.  They  are  the  things  the  care  for  which  we  never 
shall  out-go;  for  for  those  things  the  souls  of  men 
glorified  will  still  care,  and  talk  of  them  upon  the 
streets  of  heaven. 


XV. 

THE  WINGS   OF  THE   SEEAPHIM. 

Above  it  stood  the  seraphim.  Each  one  had  six  wings  ;  with  twain  he 
covered  his  face,  and  with  twain  he  covered  his  feet,  and  with  twain  he 
did  fly.  —  Isaiah  vi.  2. 

In  the  majestic  vision  of  Isaiah  the  Lord  Jehovah  sits 
upon  His  throne,  and  around  Him  as  He  sits  there  stand 
mighty  figures  such  as  do  not  appear  in  just  the  same 
guise  anywhere  else  in  Scripture.  Isaiah  calls  them 
"  the  seraphim. "  They  are  not  angels ;  they  are  rather 
the  expressions  of  the  forces  of  the  universe  waiting 
there  beside  the  throne  of  God.  They  are  titanic  be- 
ings, in  whom  is  embodied  everything  of  strength  and 
obedience  which  anywhere,  in  any  of  the  worlds  of  God, 
is  doing  His  will.  Since  man  is  the  noblest  type  of 
obedient  power,  these  majestic  seraphim  seem  to  be  hu- 
man in  their  shape;  but,  as  if  farther  to  express  their 
meaning,  there  are  added  to  each  of  them  three  pairs  of 
wings,  whose  use  and  disposition  are  with  particularity 
described. 

It  is  from  what  is  said  about  these  wings  of  the  sera- 
phim that  I  want  to  take  my  subject  for  this  morning. 
You  can  see  what  right  we  have  to  treat  the  seraphim 
themselves  as  types  and  specimens  of  strength  offering 
itself  obediently  to  God.     And  if  the  highest  attitude 


254  The   Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

of  any  man's  life  is  to  stand  waiting  for  what  use  God 
will  choose  to  make  of  him,  then  we  have  a  right  to 
seek  for  something  in  the  fullest  life  of  consecrated 
manhood  —  of  manhood  standing  by  the  throne  of  God 
—  correspondent  to  each  indication  of  temper  and  feel- 
ing which  Isaiah  shows  us  in  the  seraphim. 

How  shall  man  stand,  then,  in  a  world  where  God  sits 
in  the  centre  on  His  throne  ?  This  is  the  question  for 
which  I  seem  to  find  some  answer  in  the  picture  of  the 
mighty  creatures,  each  with  his  six  wings,  —  with  two 
of  which  he  covered  his  face,  and  with  two  he  covered 
his  feet,  and  with  two  he  did  fly.  We  gather  so  many 
of  our  impressions  of  humanity  from  poor  stunted  human 
creatures  —  poor  wingless  things  who  strut  or  grovel  in 
their  insignificance  —  that  it  will  surely  be  good  if  we 
can  turn  for  once  and  see  the  noblest  image  of  conse- 
crated power,  and  say  to  ourselves,  "  This  is  what  man 
is  meant  to  be.  This  it  is  in  me  to  be  if  I  can  use  all 
my  powers  and  let  God's  presence  bring  out  in  me  all 
that  it  really  means  to  be  a  man." 

Each  of  the  three  pairs  of  wings  has  its  own  sugges- 
tion. Let  us  look  at  them  each  in  turn  and  see  how 
they  represent  the  three  qualities  which  are  the  condi- 
tions of  a  complete,  effective  human  life. 

With  the  first  pair  of  wings,  then,  it  is  said  that  the 
living  creature,  standing  before  God,  "covered  his 
face. "  There  was  a  glory  which  it  was  not  his  to  see. 
There  was  a  splendor  and  exuberance  of  life,  a  richness 
of  radiance  coming  from  the  very  central  source  of  all 
existence  which,  although  to  keep  close  to  it  and  to 
bathe  his  being  in  its  abundance  was  his  necessity  and 


The  Wings  of  the  Seraphim.  255 

joy,  he  could  not  search  and  examine  and  understand. 
There  was  the  incomprehensibleness  of  God ! 

We  talk  about  God's  incomprehensibleness  as  if  it 
were  a  sad  necessity ;  as  if,  if  we  could  understand  God 
through  and  through,  it  would  be  happier  and  better  for 
us.  The  intimation  of  Isaiah's  vision  is  something 
different  from  that.  It  is  the  glory  of  his  seraphim 
that  they  stand  in  the  presence  of  a  God  so  great  that 
they  can  never  comprehend  Him.  His  brightness  over- 
whelms them ;  they  cover  their  faces  with  their  wings, 
and  their  hearts  are  filled  with  reverence,  which  is  the 
first  of  the  conditions  of  complete  human  life  which 
they  represent. 

We  have  only  to  think  of  it  a  moment  to  become 
aware  how  universal  a  necessity  of  human  life  we  are 
naming  when  we  speak  of  reverence,  —  meaning  by  it 
that  homage  which  we  feel  for  what  goes  beyond  both 
our  imitation  and  our  knowledge,  and  shrouds '  itself  in 
mystery.  No  man  does  anything  well  who  does  not 
feel  the  unknown  surrounding  and  pressing  upon  the 
known,  and  who  is  not  therefore  aware  all  the  time 
that  what  he  does  has  deeper  sources  and  more  distant 
issues  than  he  can  comprehend.  It  is  not  only  a  pleas- 
ing sentiment,  it  is  a  necessary  element  of  power,  — 
this  reverence  which  veils  its  eyes  before  something 
which  it  may  not  know.  What  would  you  give  for  the 
physician  who  believed  that  he  had  mastered  all  the 
truth  concerning  our  human  bodies  and  never  stood  in 
awe  before  the  mystery  of  life,  the  mystery  of  death  ? 
What  would  you  give  for  the  statesman  who  had  no  rev- 
erence, who  made  the  State  a  mere  machine,  and  felt 


256  The   Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

the  presence  in  it  of  no  deep  principles  too  profound  for 
him  to  understand  ?  What  is  more  dreadful  than  irrev- 
erent art  which  paints  all  that  it  sees  because  it  sees 
almost  nothing,  and  yet  does  not  dream  that  there  is 
more  to  see;  which  suggests  nothing  because  it  sus- 
pects nothing  profounder  than  the  flimsy  tale  it  tells, 
and  would  fain  make  us  all  believe  that  there  is  no  sa- 
credness  in  woman,  nor  nobleness  in  man,  nor  secret  in 
Nature,  nor  dignity  in  life.  Irreverence  everywhere 
is  blindness  and  not  sight.  It  is  the  stare  which  is 
bold  because  it  believes  in  its  heart  that  there  is  noth- 
ing which  its  insolent  intelligence  may  not  fathom,  and 
so  which  finds  only  what  it  looks  for,  and  makes  the 
world  as  shallow  as  it  ignorantly  dreams  the  world 
to  be. 

When  I  say  this,  I  know,  of  course,  how  easily  corrup- 
tible the  faculty  of  reverence  has  always  proved  itself 
to  be.  The  noblest  and  finest  things  are  always  most 
capable  of  corruption.  I  see  the  ghosts  of  all  the  super- 
stitions rise  before  me.  I  see  men  standing  with  delib- 
erately blinded  eyes,  hiding  from  their  inspection  things 
which  they  ought  to  examine,  living  in  wilfully  chosen 
delusions  which  they  prefer  to  the  truth.  I  see  all  this 
in  history ;  I  see  a  vast  amount  of  this  to-day  and  yet 
all  the  more  because  of  this,  I  am  sure  that  we  ought  to 
assert  the  necessity  of  reverence  and  of  the  sense  of 
mystery,  and  of  the  certainty  of  the  unknown  to  every 
life.  To  make  the  sentiment  of  reverence  universal 
would  be  the  truest  way  to  keep  it  healthy  and  pure. 
It  must  not  seem  to  be  the  strange  prerogative  of  saints 
or  cranks;  it  must  not  seem  to  be  the  sign  of  excep- 


OiTie   Wings  of  the  Serapliim.  257 

tional  weakness  or  exceptional  strength ;  it  must  be  the 
element  in  which  all  lives  go  on,  and  which  has  its  own 
ministry  for  each.  The  child  must  have  it,  feeling  his 
little  actions  touch  the  Infinite  as  his  feet  upon  the 
beach  delight  in  the  waves  out  of  the  boundless  sea  that 
strike  them.  The  mechanic  must  have  it,  feeling  how 
his  commonest  tools  are  ministers  of  elemental  forces, 
and  raise  currents  in  the  air  that  run  out  instantly  be- 
yond his  ken.  The  scientist  needs  it  as  he  deals  with 
the  palpable  and  material  which  hangs  in  the  impalpa- 
ble and  spiritual,  and  cannot  be  known  without  the 
knowledge  of  the  mystery  in  which  it  floats.  Every 
true  scientist  has  it;  New^ton  or  Tyndal  pauses  a  mo- 
ment in  his  description  of  the  intelligible,  and  some 
hymn  of  the  unintelligible,  some  psalm  of  delight  in 
the  unknown,  comes  bursting  from  his  scientific  lips. 
Every  man  holds  his  best  knowledge  of  himself  bosomed 
on  an  ignorance  about  himself,  —  a  perception  of  the 
mystery  of  his  own  life  which  gives  it  all  its  value. 
You  can  know  nothing  which  you  do  not  reverence ! 
You  can  see  nothing  before  which  you  do  not  veil  your 
eyes! 

But  now  take  one  step  farther.  All  of  the  mystery 
which  surrounds  life  and  pervades  life  is  really  one 
mystery.  It  is  God.  Called  by  His  name,  taken  up 
into  His  being,  it  is  filled  with  graciousness.  It  is  no 
longer  cold  and  hard ;  it  is  all  warm  and  soft  and  pal- 
pitating. It  is  love.  And  of  this  personal  mystery  of 
love  —  of  God  —  it  is  supremely  true  that  only  by  rev- 
erence, only  by  the  hiding  of  the  eyes,  can  He  be  seen. 
He  who  thinks  to  look  God  full  in  the  face  and  question 

17 


258  The   Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

Him  about  His  existence,  blinds  himself  thereby,  and 
cannot  see  God.  He  sees  something,  but  what  he  sees 
is  not  God  but  himself.  In  Christ  Himself  there  is  the 
perpetual  intimation  of  His  ignorance.  There  is  the 
continual  awe  of  a  nature  from  the  perfect  knowledge 
of  which  the  conditions  of  His  human  life  excluded 
him.  And  if  He  could  not  know  the  Father  perfectly, 
while  He  lived  here  in  the  flesh,  shall  we  complain  that 
we  cannot  ?  Shall  we  not  rather  rejoice  in  it  ?  Shall 
it  not  be  a  joy  to  us  to  feel,  around  and  through  the 
familiar  things  which  we  seem  perfectly  to  understand, 
the  wealth  and  depth  of  Divinity,  out-going  all  our 
comprehension  ? 

Sometimes  life  grows  so  lonely.  The  strongest  men 
crave  a  relationship  to  things  more  deep  than  ordinary 
intercourses  involve.  They  want  something  profounder 
to  rest  upon,  — something  which  they  can  reverence  as 
well  as  love ;  and  then  comes  God. 

**  Call  ye  life  lonel)'  ?    Oh,  the  myriad  sounds 
Which  haunt  it,  proving  how  its  outer  bounds 
Join  with  eternity,  where  God  abounds  ! " 

Then  the  sense  of  something  which  they  cannot  know, 
of  some  one  greater,  infinitely  greater  than  themselves 
surrounds  their  life,  and  there  is  strength  and  peace,  as 
when  the  ocean  takes  the  ship  in  its  embrace,  as  when 
the  rich  warm  atmosphere  enfolds  the  earth. 

But  I  do  not  think  that  we  have  reached  the  fulness 
of  Isaiah's  description  of  reverence  as  one  of  the  great 
elements  of  life  until  we  have  looked  more  carefully  at 
the  image  which  he  sets  before  us.     He  says  of  the 


The  Wings  of  the  Seraphim.  259 

seraphim  not  merely  that  their  eyes  were  covered,  but 
that  they  were  covered  with  their  wings.  Now  the  wings 
represent  the  active  powers.  It  is  with  them  that  move- 
ment is  accomplished  and  change  achieved  and  obedi- 
ence rendered ;  so  that  it  seems  to  me  that  what  the  whole 
image  means  is  this, — that  it  is  with  the  powers  of  ac- 
tion and  obedience  that  the  powers  of  insight  and  knowl- 
edge are  veiled.  The  being  who  rightly  approaches  God, 
approaches  Him  with  the  powers  of  obedience  held  for- 
ward ;  and  only  through  them  does  the  sight  of  God  come 
to  the  intelligence  which  lies  behind.  The  mystery  and 
awfulness  of  God  is  a  conviction  reached  through  serv- 
ing Him.  The  more  He  is  served  the  more  the  vastness 
of  His  nature  is  felt.  The  more  obedience,  the  more  rev- 
erence. That,  I  take  it,  is  the  meaning  of  Isaiah's  sera- 
phim with  their  two  wings  covering  their  faces. 

Behold,  what  a  lofty  idea  of  reverence  is  here!  It 
is  no  palsied  idleness.  The  figure  which  we  see  is  not 
flung  down  upon  the  ground,  despairing  and  dismayed. 
It  stands  upon  its  feet ;  it  is  alert  and  watchful ;  it  is 
waiting  for  commandments ;  it  is  eager  for  work ;  but 
all  the  time  its  work  makes  it  more  beautifully,  com- 
pletely, devoutly  reverent  of  Him  for  whom  the  work  is 
done.  The  more  work  the  more  reverence.  So  man 
grows  more  mysterious  and  great  to  you,  oh,  servant  of 
mankind,  the  longer  that  you  work  for  him.  Is  it  not 
so  ?  So  Nature  grows  more  mysterious  to  you,  oh,  nat- 
uralist, the  longer  that  you  serve  her.  Is  it  not  so  ? 
So  God  grows  more  sublime  and  awful  as  we  labor  for 
Him  in  the  tasks  which  He  has  set  us.  Would  you  grow 
rich  in  reverence  ?     Go  work,  work,  work  with  all  your 


260  TJie   Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

strengtli ;  so  let  life  deepen  around  you  and  display  its 
greatness. 

Poor  is  the  age  which  has  not  reverence.  Men  say 
it  sometimes  of  this  age  of  ours.  But  just  because  it  is 
an  age  of  active  over-running  work,  I  cannot,  I  do  not 
believe  that  it  is  really  so.  At  least,  I  feel  sure  that 
it  cannot  be  so  in  the  end.  Its  work  may  make  it  at 
first  arrogant  and  merely  trustful  of  itself.  A  little 
work  like  a  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing.  It 
may  not  easily  and  all  at  once  submit  to  be  obedient ; 
but  as  it  goes  deeper  and  touches  more  mighty  tasks  it 
must  come  into  the  presence  of  the  power  which  is  be- 
hind all  powers,  and  feel  God.  Until  it  does  that  it 
may  trifle,  it  may  grow  profane;  but  all  the  time  it 
is  on  the  way  to  reverence,  the  highest  reverence,  —  the 
reverence  which  comes  not  by  idle  contemplation,  but 
by  obedient  work. 

Poor  is  the  soul  which  has  not  reverence !  You  may 
have  many  powers  and  gifts,  but  if  you  have  not  rever- 
ence there  is  a  blight  upon  them  all.  Only  be  sure  you 
seek  for  reverence  aright.  Not  by  shutting  your  eyes 
to  God  or  any  of  His  truth,  but  by  spreading  your  wings 
before  your  eyes,  by  putting  your  active  powers  in  the 
forefront  of  your  life,  by  doing  your  work  as  deeply,  in 
as  true  a  sense  of  obedience  to  God,  as  possible,  so  shall 
you  touch  the  Infinite,  and  live  in  a  serene  and  cheerful 
awe.  The  veiling  of  intelligence  with  obedience  shall 
give  it  light  and  not  darkness.  The  reverence  which 
comes  in  service  shall  be  not  paralysis,  but  strength. 

Let  us  pass  on  to  the  second  element  in  Isaiah's 
image  of  a  strong  and  consecrated  life.     With  twain  of 


The  Wings  of  the  Seraphim.  261 

his  wings,  he  says,  each  of  the  seraphim  "  covered  his 
feet. "  The  covering  of  the  feet  represents  the  covering 
of  the  whole  body.  As  the  covering  of  the  face  means 
not  seeing,  the  covering  of  the  feet  means  not  being 
seen.  It  signifies  the  hiding  of  oneself,  the  self-efface- 
ment which  belongs  to  every  effective  act  and  every 
victorious  life. 

Here  is  a  man  entirely  carried  away  by  a  great  en- 
thusiasm. He  believes  in  it  with  all  his  soul.  His 
heart  and  hands  are  full  of  it.  What  is  the  result  ? 
Is  it  not  true  that  he  entirely  forgets  himself  ?  Whether 
he  is  doing  himself  credit  or  discredit,  whether  men 
are  praising  him  or  blaming  him,  whether  the  comple- 
tion of  the  work  will  leave  him  far  up  the  hill  of  fame 
or  down  in  the  dark  valley  of  obscurity,  he  literally 
never  thinks  of  that.  He  is  obliterated.  It  is  as  if  he 
did  not  exist,  but  the  work  did  itself,  and  he  was  only 
a  spirit  to  rejoice  in  its  success.  Some  morning  the 
work  is  done.  It  is  successful ;  and  he  is  famous  and 
amazed.  Another  man's  work  is  all  filled  with  self- 
consciousness.  He  never  loses  himself  out  of  it  for  a 
moment.  It  may  be  a  noble  self-consciousness.  He 
may  be  anxious  all  the  time  that  the  work  he  is  doing 
should  make  him  a  better  man ;  but  the  work  is  weak 
just  in  proportion  as  he  thinks  about  himself.  It  is 
strong  just  in  proportion  to  his  self-forgetfulness. 

Is  it  not  so  ?  Consider  your  own  lives.  Have  you 
not  all  had  great  moments  in  which  you  have  forgotten 
yourselves,  and  do  you  not  recognize  in  those  moments  a 
clearness  and  simplicity  and  strength  which  separates 
them  from  all  the  other  moments  of  your  life  ?     There 


262  The   Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

was  a  moment  when  you  saw  that  a  great  truth  was  true 
and  accepted  it  without  asking  what  the  consequences 
of  its  acceptance  to  your  life  might  be.  There  was  a 
moment  when  you  saw  a  great  wrong  being  done,  and 
resisted  it  with  an  impulse  which  seemed  to  be  born 
directly  out  of  the  heart  of  the  eternal  justice  and  had 
nothing  to  do  with  your  personal  dispositions,  —  hardly 
anything,  even,  with  your  personal  will.  There  was 
a  moment  when  you  were  in  battle ;  and  whether  you 
lived  or  died  was  unimportant,  but  that  the  citadel 
should  be  taken  was  a  necessity.  Those  are  the  great 
moments  of  your  life. 

The  man  who  forgets  himself  in  his  work  has  but  one 
thing  to  think  of, — namely,  his  work.  The  man  who 
cannot  forget  himself  has  two  things  to  think  of,  —  his 
work  and  himself.  There  is  the  meaning  of  it  all. 
There  is  the  distraction  and  the  waste.  The  energy 
cannot  be  concentrated  and  poured  in  directly  on  its 
one  result.  Who  wants  to  see  a  governor,  whose  whole 
thought  might  be  given  to  the  welfare  of  the  State,  for- 
ever pulled  aside  to  think  how  what  he  proposes  to  do 
will  affect  his  popularity,  his  credit,  his  chance  of  be- 
ing governor  again  ?  My  friend  comes  and  sits  down 
beside  me,  and  begms  to  give  me  his  advice.  I  listen, 
and  his  words  are  wise.  I  am  just  catching  glimpses 
of  his  meaning  and  seeing  how  there  may  be  truth  in 
what  he  tells,  when  suddenly  there  breaks  out  through 
his  talk  a  lurid  flash  which  spoils  it  all.  The  man  is 
thinking  of  himself.  He  is  trying  to  be  wise.  He  is 
remembering  how  wise  he  is.  He  is  trying  to  impress 
me  with  his  wisdom;  and  so  his  power  is  gone.     A 


The   Wings  of  the  Seraphim.  263 

student  sits  and  seeks  for  truth,  but  mingled  with  his 
search  for  truth  there  is  a  seeking  after  fame  or  some 
position;  and  truth  hides  her  deepest  secrets  from  a 
man  like  him.  So  everywhere  the  noblest  streams 
grow  muddy  with  self-consciousness.  Only  here  and 
there  a  stream  refuses  to  be  muddied;  and  then, 
whether  it  be  great  or  small,  a  mighty  torrent  or  a  sil' 
ver  thread  of  quiet  water,  in  its  forgetfulness  of  self  it 
flows  on  to  its  work,  and  makes  men's  hearts  joyous 
and  strong.  Efface  yourselves,  efface  yourselves;  and 
the  only  way  to  do  it  is  to  stand  in  the  presence  of 
God,  and  be  so  possessed  with  Him  that  there  shall  be 
no  space  or  time  left  for  the  poor  intrusion  of  your  own 
little  personality. 

Here  also,  as  before,  it  is  possible  to  follow  out  the 
image  of  Isaiah.  Here,  as  before,  it  may  mean  some- 
thing to  us  that  the  feet  are  not  merely  covered,  but 
covered  with  the  wings.  The  wings,  we  saw,  meant  the 
active  powers ;  and  so  the  meaning  is  that  the  thought 
of  oneself  is  to  be  hidden  and  lost  behind  the  energy 
and  faithfulness  and  joy  of  active  work.  I  may  deter- 
mine that  I  will  not  be  self-conscious,  and  my  very  de- 
termination is  self-consciousness ;  but  I  become  obedient 
to  God,  and  try  enthusiastically  to  do  His  will,  and  I 
forget  myself  entirely  before  I  know  it.  It  is  not  be- 
cause men  make  so  much  of  their  work  that  their  work 
makes  them  vain  and  fills  itself  with  secondary  thoughts 
of  their  own  advantage ;  it  is  because  they  make  so 
little  of  their  work,  because  they  do  not  lift  themselves 
up  to  the  thought  of  obedience  to  God.  The  efface- 
ment  of  self  is  not  to  come  by  sinking  into  sleep,  but 


264  The  Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

by  being  roused  into  intensest  action  at  the  call  of  God, 
■ — by  a  passionate  desire  that  His  will  should  be  done, 
whether  by  us  or  by  another.  When  that  is  in  our  soul, 
we  shall  do  the  part  of  His  will  which  is  ours  to  do,  and 
in  our  eagerness  for  the  doing  of  the  work  forget  the 
worker.  Here  is  the  true  death  of  personal  ambition, 
into  the  higher  life  of  desire  for  the  attainment  of  re- 
sults. "P^re  Jandel  is  myself  without  the  inconven- 
ience of  myself,"  said  Lacordaire  when  his  brother-monk 
was  elevated  above  himself  to  the  master-generalship  of 
their  order.  Behind  the  wings  the  feet  are  growing 
always  strong  and  beautiful.  Within  the  obedience  the 
obedient  nature  is  growing  vigorous  and  fair;  but  its 
own  growth  is  not  its  purpose,  and  by  and  by  when  the 
obediencG  is  complete,  the  soul  itself  most  of  all  is  sur- 
prised at  the  unguessed,  unhoped-for  life  which  has 
come  to  it  in  its  voluntary  death. 

This  i-6  the  history  of  all  self-sacrifice,  of  all  the  mar- 
tyrdoms, of  all  the  crosses.  This  is  what  is  going  on  in 
the  sick-rooms  where  souls  are  learning  patience,  and  on 
battle-fields  where  brave  young  soldiers  are  fighting  for 
the  truth.  This  is  what  true  life  does  for  true  men 
as  the  years  go  on.  Work  for  God  somewhere,  in  some 
form,  takes  gradual  possession  of  a  man  until  at  last  the 
thought  of  self,  even  in  its  highest  interests,  has  passed 
away.  It  seems  to  be  dead,  and  only  wakens  into  con 
scious  life  again  when  the  great  salutation  greets  it  at 
the  end,  "  Well  done,  good  and  faitliful  servant.  Thou 
hast  been  faithful.  Enter  into  My  joy."  Then  the 
wings  part,  and  the  uncovered  feet  walk  by  the  river  of 
the  water  of  life. 


The   Wings  of  the  Seraphim.  265 

One  pair  of  wings  remains.  After  the  twain  which 
hid  the  face  of  the  seraph,  and  the  twain  which  hid  his 
feet,  Isaiah  says  still,  "And  with  twain  did  he  fly." 
We  have  spoken  of  obedience  as  the  method  of  re- 
verence, and  of  obedience  as  the  method  of  self-- 
effacement ;  but  here  there  comes  the  simpler  and  per- 
haps the  healthier  thought  of  obedience  purely  and 
solely  for  itself,  —  the  absolute  joy  and  privilege  of 
the  creature  in  doing  the  Creator's  will. 

"  His  state 
Is  kingly.     Thousands  at  his  bidding  speed 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest." 

So  sang  the  poet  of  divinity.  And  though  he  goes  on 
to  turn  his  great  truth  into  consolation  of  his  own  afflic- 
tion, yet  in  the  lines  themselves  we  cannot  help  feeling 
a  true  and  simple  joy  in  the  great  glory  of  a  universe 
all  thrilled  and  beaten  with  the  wings  of  hurrying 
obedience. 

To  live  in  such  a  universe  of  obedient  activity,  to  feel 
its  movement,  to  be  sensible  of  its  gloriousness,  and  yet 
to  make  no  active  part  of  it  would  be  dreadful.  Milton 
felt  this,  and  in  his  last  great  line  was  compelled  to 
pierce  down  to  the  deepest  truth  about  the  matter,  and 
assert  that  he  too,  even  in  his  blindness,  had  share  in 
the  obedience  of  the  untiring  worlds. 

"  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 

Here  is  the  deepest  reason,  here  is  the  reasonable 
glory  of  that  which  is  perpetually  exalted  and  belauded 
in  cheap  and  superficial  ways,  —  the  excellence  of  work, 
the  glory  of  activity.     Many  of  our  familiar  human  in- 


266  Tlie  Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

stincts  live  and  act  by  deeper  powers  than  they  know. 
That  which  is  really  the  noble,  the  divine  element  in 
the  perpetual  activity  of  man  is  the  sympathy  of  the 
obedient  universe.  The  circling  stars,  the  flowing 
rivers,  the  growing  trees,  the  whirling  atoms,  the 
rushing  winds,  —  all  things  are  in  obedient  action, 
doing  the  will  of  God.  It  is  the  healthy  impulse  of 
any  true  man  who  finds  himself  in  this  active  world  to 
share  in  its  activity.  It  is  the  healthy  shame  of  any 
true  man  to  find  himself  left  out,  having  no  part  in  that 
obedience  which  keeps  all  life  alive. 

This  is  the  power  of  the  flying  wings,  —  the  simple 
glory  of  active  obedience  to  God.  Somewhere,  in  some 
sphere,  to  do  some  part  of  the  Eternal  Will,  to  bear  some 
message,  to  fulfil  some  task,  —  no  human  being  can  be 
complete,  no  human  being  can  be  satisfied  without  that. 
You  may  have  the  face-covering  wings  and  hide  your 
eyes  behind  them,  —  that  is,  you  may  be  full  of  rever- 
ence ;  you  may  feel  most  overwhelmingly  the  majesty  of 
God ;  you  may  stand  all  day  in  the  most  sacred  place, 
crying,  "Holy,  holy,  holy,"  through  the  clouds  of  in- 
cense all  day  long.  You  may  have  the  feet-covering 
wings ;  you  may  efface  yourself ;  you  may  tear  out  the 
last  roots  of  vanity  from  your  life;  you  may  mortify 
your  pride;  you  may  even  deny  facts  in  your  eager 
depreciation  of  yourself;  but  reverence  and  self-efface- 
ment come  to  nothing  unless  the  spirit  of  active 
obedience  fills  the  life. 

I  think  this  appears  to  be  ever  more  and  more  criti- 
cally true.  If  a  man  wants  to  do  God's  will,  there  can 
be  no  misbelief  in  him  so  dangerous  as  to  be  his  ruin, 


The  Wings  of  the  Seraphim.  267 

there  can  be  no  prison  of  false  sentiment  or  feeling  in 
him  that  is  not  already  being  cast  out.  It  is  not  that 
belief  is  unimportant.  God  forbid  1  Belief  is  of  the 
rery  substance  of  the  life.  "As  he  thinketh  in  his 
heart,  so  is  he. "  It  is  not  that  false  feelings,  pride,  and 
self-consciousness  are  insignificant.  They  are  the  soul's 
corruption  and  paralysis.  But  it  is  that  through  active 
service,  through  the  will  to  do  God's  will,  belief  is  ever 
struggling  to  become  true,  and  feeling  is  ever  strug- 
gling to  grow  healthy.  No  man  is  fool  enough  to  think 
that  an  active  arm  and  a  big  muscle  can  be  a  substitute 
for  a  slow  beating  heart  or  a  torpid  brain.  It  is  to  set 
the  dull  brain  thinking  and  the  slow  blood  running  that 
you  take  your  exercise.  Not  as  a  substitute  for  doctrine 
or  for  love,  but  as  a  means  of  both,  the  Christian  says, 
"  0  Lord,  what  shall  I  do  ?  "  And  so  his  act  of  service 
has  in  it  all  the  richness  of  faith  not  yet  believed,  and 
love  not  yet  kindled  into  consciousness. 

There  are  two  extremes  of  error.  In  the  one,  action 
is  disparaged.  The  man  says,  "  Not  what  I  do  but  what 
I  am  is  of  significance.  It  is  not  action.  It  is  charac- 
ter. "  The  result  is  that  character  itself  fades  away  out 
of  the  inactive  life.  In  the  other  extreme,  action  is 
made  everything.  The  glory  of  mere  work  is  sung  in 
every  sort  of  tune.  Just  to  be  busy  seems  the  sufficient 
accomplishment  of  life.  The  result  is  that  work  loses 
its  dignity,  and  the  industrious  man  becomes  a  clatter- 
ing machine.  Is  it  not  just  here  that  the  vision  of  the 
wings  comes  in  ?  Activity  in  obedience  to  God.  Work 
done  for  Him  and  His  eternal  purposes.  Duty  con- 
scious of  Him  and  forgetful  of  the  doer's  self,  and  so 


268  The   Wings  of  the  Seraphim. 

enthusiastic,  spontaneous,  —  there  is  the  field  where 
character  is  grown,  there  is  at  once  the  cultivation  of 
the  worker's  soul  and  the  building  of  some  comer  of 
the  Kingdom  of  God. 

Oh,  my  young  friends,  listen  to  the  great  modern  Gos= 
pel  of  Work  which  comes  to  you  on  every  breeze,  but  do 
not  let  it  be  to  you  the  shallow,  superficial  story  that  it 
is  to  many  modern  ears.  Work  is  everything  or  work 
is  nothing  according  to  the  lord  we  work  for.  Work 
for  God.  Let  yourself  do  no  work  which  you  cannot 
hold  up  in  His  sight  and  say,  "  Lord,  this  is  Thine ! " 
and  then  your  work  indeed  is  noble.  Then  you  are 
standing  with  your  flying  wings  which  will  assuredly 
bear  you  into  fuller  light  as  they  carry  some  work  of 
God  toward  its  fulfilment. 

These  then  are  the  three,  —  reverence  and  self-f or- 
getfulness  and  active  obedience,  —  "  With  twain  he 
covered  his  face,  and  with  twain  he  covered  his  feet, 
and  with  twain  he  did  fly. "  It  is  because  of  irrever- 
ence and  self-conceit  and  idleness  that  our  lives  are 
weak.  Go  stand  in  the  sight  of  God  and  these  wings 
of  salvation  shall  come  and  clothe  your  life.  They  per- 
fectly clothed  the  life  of  Jesus.  Eeverence  and  self- 
sacrifice  and  obedience  were  perfect  in  Him.  In  the 
most  overwhelmed  moments  of  His  life,  —  crushed  in 
the  garden,  agonized  upon  the  cross,  —  he  was  really 
standing,  like  the  strong  seraphim,  at  the  right  hand 
of  God. 

You  want  to  be  strong.  Oh,  be  strong  in  the  Lord 
and    in    the    power    of   His   might,  —  strong   as    He 


The  Wings  of  the  Seraphim.  269 

was  by  reverence  and  self-surrender  and  obedience. 
The  opportunity  for  that  strength  is  open  to  every 
man  who  bears  a  soul  within  him,  and  over  whom  is 
God,  and  around  whom  is  the  world  all  full  of  duty  and 
need  I 


XVI. 

THE  PLANTEK   AND  THE  KAIK 

He  planteth  an  ash,  and  the  rain  doth  nourish  it.  —  Isaiah  xliv.  14. 

The  Prophet  is  telling  us  how  men  make  idols.  He 
pictures  the  whole  process.  He  describes  the  planting 
of  a  tree  upon  the  hill-side,  its  growth  into  full  size  and 
strength,  its  being  cut  down  and  made  into  fuel,  the 
comfort  which  it  gives  its  owner  as  it  burns  upon  the 
hearth,  and  then  how  "the  residue  thereof  he  maketh  a 
god,  even  his  graven  image. "  What  is  on  the  Prophet's 
mind  is  the  indiscriminateness,  the  lack  of  separateness 
and  sanctity  in  that  which  is  put  to  sacred  uses.  It 
is  but  the  refuse  and  residue  of  ordinary  life  that  is 
given  to  religion.  We  will  not  try  to  follow  the  Prophet 
in  this  line  of  his  thought  to-day;  rather  let  us  dwell 
on  one  idea  which  is  incidentally  suggested  by  what  he 
says.  In  the  course  of  his  story  he  depicts  the  growing 
of  a  tree.  "  He  planteth  an  ash,  and  the  rain  doth  nour- 
ish it. "  It  is  the  same  thing  going  on  long  ago  in  old 
Judea  which  has  gone  on  since  man  began  to  live  upon 
the  earth,  which  is  going  on  everywhere  to-day.  The 
civilized  and  cultivated  tree  is  the  joint  product  of  hu- 
man care  and  the  earth's  fertility.  Man  puts  the  seed 
into  the  ground,  and  then  the  ground,  made  fruitful  by 
rain  and  sunshine,  does  the  rest.     Man  has  the  initia- 


The  Planter  and  the  Bain.  271 

tive,  but  he  does  not  follow  out  what  he  begins  to  its 
fulfilment.  It  is  taken  out  of  his  hands.  The  great 
machinery  of  Nature  appropriates  it,  and  by  and  by 
the  full-grown  product  does  not  belong  alone  to  him 
or  to  Nature,  but  is  the  work  of  both  together,  —  of  his 
designing  and  of  Nature's  execution.  "He  planted 
the  ash,   and  the  rain  did  nourish  it." 

The  words  have  in  them  that,  I  think,  which  immedi- 
ately harmonizes  with  the  large  and  general  feeling 
which  we  all  have  about  the  way  in  which  things  grow 
in  the  world.  Partly  by  deliberate  choice,  and  partly  by 
what  seems  to  be  automatic  action ;  partly  by  man  giv- 
ing orders  to  Nature,  and  partly  by  Nature  carrying 
out  the  suggestions  of  man ;  partly  by  human  will,  and 
partly  by  natural  force,  —  so  it  appears  to  us  as  if  the 
operations  of  the  world  went  on.  Sometimes  one  ele- 
ment and  sometimes  the  other  seems  most  prominent, 
according  to  the  observer's  general  nature  or  special 
mood.  But,  behold!  here  is  a  recognition  of  them 
both,  and  a  blending  of  the  two.  Here  is  man  the  de- 
viser, the  conceiver,  and  here  is  the  great  system  of  the 
universe  taking  his  devise  or  conception  at  his  hands 
and  carrying  it  forward  to  its  full  development.  Let  us 
study  the  picture  which  is  thus  set  before  us,  and  see 
how  true  it  is  to  what  the  world  contains. 

We  may  ask  ourselves  how  it  is  that  any  institution 
or  established  form  of  human  living  comes  to  be  preva- 
lent and  dominant.  We  cannot  often  —  perhaps  we  can 
almost  never  —  trace  the  process,  but  we  know  what  it 
must  be.  A  strong  idea,  of  freedom,  of  justice,  of 
mercy,  enters  into  some  strong  man's  soul.     It  makes 


272  The  Planter  and  the  Bain. 

itself  completely  his.  Then  it  will  not  be  satisfied  with 
him;  it  grows  restless  within  him  and  demands  the 
world.  Then  he  takes  it  out  some  day  and  plants  it. 
With  some  vigorous,  incisive  word  or  deed  he  thrusts 
his  live  and  fiery  idea  down  deep  into  the  fruitful  soil 
of  human  life.  Then  human  life  takes  up  his  idea  and 
nourishes  it.  "Wonderfully  all  the  forces  gather  around 
it  and  give  it  their  vitality.  History  bears  witness  that 
it  has  all  been  living  by  the  power  of  that  idea  un- 
known, unguessed ;  philosophy  says  that  in  it  lies  the 
key  of  her  hard  problems;  economy  discovers  that  by 
it  life  may  be  made  more  thrifty  and  complete ;  poetry 
shows  its  nobleness ;  affection  wreaths  it  with  love ;  all 
the  essential  hopes  and  fears  and  needs  of  human  na- 
ture come  flocking  to  it;  until  at  last  you  can  no  more 
conceive  of  human  life  without  that  idea  than  you  can 
think  with  complacency  of  the  landscape  without  the 
great  tree  which  is  as  thoroughly  a  part  of  it  as  is  the 
very  ground  itself.  A  free  church,  a  just  court,  a  pop- 
ular government,  —  this  is  the  way  in  which  every  in- 
stitution comes  to  be.  It  is  the  thought  of  a  man  set 
into  the  great  system  of  human  life,  claimed  by  that 
system,  fed  by  it,  becoming  so  thoroughly  the  possession 
of  that  system  that  it  quite  forgets  the  mind  in  which, 
it  first  sprang,  but  yet  being  through  all  its  long  per-', 
petual  life  the  result  of  both,  —  of  the  hand  that  planted 
it,  and  of  the  elements  which  fed  it  into  its  full  result 
—  the  ash-tree  which  the  man  planted,  and  the  rain 
nourished. 

Here  is  the  relation  of  the  world's  few  great  creative 
men  to  the  great  mass  and  body  of  its  life.     Helpless 


The  Planter  and  the  Rain.  273 

would  the  great  general  humanity  be  without  their 
pregnant  thoughts;  helpless  would  they  be  for  all 
their  pregnant  thoughts  without  the  great  general  hu- 
manity in  which  to  plant  them.  Helpless  Europe 
without  Martin  Luther.  Helpless  also  Martin  Luther 
without  Europe.  The  idea  may  be  the  richest  and  the 
truest ;  without  the  human  heart  to  plant  it  in,  it  comes 
to  nothing.  The  human  heart  may  be  tumultuous  with 
fructifying  power ;  if  it  have  no  idea  to  work  upon,  it 
tears  itself  to  pieces  with  its  purposeless  fermentation. 
Here  is  the  mutual  need  of  great  souls  and  the  great 
world.  Here  is  where  they  must  learn  to  respect  and 
to  be  thankful  for  each  other.  Here  must  be  their 
escape  from  all  grudges  and  jealousies  and  weak 
contempt. 

This  may  serve  for  our  first  illustration  of  the  truth 
we  have  to  study.  We  have  another,  even  more  strik- 
ing, close  at  our  hand  in  the  way  in  which  character 
grows  up  in  our  personal  nature.  Where  do  our  char- 
acters come  from  ?  It  is  easy  sometimes  to  represent 
them  as  the  result  of  strong  influence  which  other  men 
have  had  over  us.  It  is  easy  at  other  times  to  think  of 
them  as  if  they  made  themselves,  shaping  themselves 
by  mere  internal  fermentation  into  the  result  we  see. 
But  neither  account  tells  the  story  by  itself.  We  know 
that  it  does  not.  When  we  question  ourselves,  not 
about  character  in  general,  but  about  special  points  and 
qualities  of  character,  then  we  are  sure  that  it  was  by 
some  outer  influence  made  our  own,  some  seed  of  mo- 
tive or  example  set  into  our  lives  and  then  taken  pos- 
session of  by  those  lives  and  filled  with  their  vitality, 

18 


274  The  Planter  and  the  Rain. 

developed  into  their  own  type  and  kind  of  vice  or 
virtue  —  it  was  thus  that  this  which  is  now  so  intimate 
that  we  call  it  not  merely  ours  but  ourselves  came  into 
being.  This  is  the  reason  of  the  perpetual  identity 
along  with  the  perpetual  variety  of  goodness  and  bad- 
ness. We  are  all  good  and  bad  alike;  and  yet  every 
man  is  good  and  bad  in  a  way  all  his  own,  —  in  a  way 
in  which  no  other  man  has  ever  been  bad  or  good  since 
the  world  began,  —  just  as  all  ash-trees  are  alike  be- 
cause they  have  all  been  planted  from  the  same  nurs- 
eries; and  yet  every  ash-tree  is  different  from  every 
other  because  it  has  grown  in  its  own  soil  and  fed  on  its 
own  rain:  the  society  and  the  individuality  of  moral 
life. 

Of  course  what  I  am  saying  is  true  both  of  the  evil 
and  of  the  good  which  is  in  us.  It  is  true  of  the  evil. 
Here  is  the  bad  man.  Here  is  the  thief.  How  did  he 
grow  bad  ?  How  is  he  bad  to-day  ?  He  cheats  himself 
if  he  tries  to  believe  that  he  is  bad  because  of  a  constant 
outside  influence  which  holds  him  every  moment,  and 
thinks  that  if  that  influence  were  taken  off  he  instantly 
would  flee  to  goodness.  The  evil  in  him  is  vastly 
more  his  own,  more  himself,  than  that ;  and  yet  it  did 
come  into  him  from  without.  He  did  not  invent  rob- 
bery. The  temptation  dropped  in  through  the  open 
channel  of  the  eye  or  ear ;  but,  once  in,  it  became  his. 
It  became  he.  His  nature  seized  it ;  his  passions  col- 
ored it ;  it  turned  its  growth  in  the  direction  of  his  am- 
bitions. How  harmless  the  temptation  without  him! 
How  innocent  he  but  for  the  temptation! 

Or  is  it  goodness  and  not  evil?     Still  the  same  thing 


The  Planter  and  the  Rain.  275 

is  true.  You  have  absolutely  forgotten  what  suggestion 
it  was  which  first  brought  to  your  thought  the  idea  of 
self-conquest,  or  of  knowledge,  or  of  charity,  which  is 
now  your  very  life  of  life.  Was  there  ever  a  time  when 
you  were  destitute  of  it  ?  Is  it  possible  that  other  peo- 
ple have  it  too,  this  which  is  so  especially  and  ab- 
solutely your  own  ?  How  far  away  seems  the  time,  as 
your  strained  memory  recovers  it,  when  some  dear 
hand  dropped  into  your  soft,  young  life  the  seed  which 
has  grown  richly  into  this !  The  lips  which  spoke  the 
word  which  was  the  New  Word  of  your  life  have  with- 
ered beneath  the  tombstone  long  ago.  The  father  or 
the  mother  who  said  to  you,  "  Be  brave,  be  true, "  have 
gone  on  themselves  deep  into  the  courage  and  truth  of 
eternity.  But  what  then  ?  Does  the  harvest-field  re- 
member the  bright  morning  when  the  sower  walked  in 
the  brown  furrows  and  scattered  the  seed  ?  It  is  not 
what  stays  in  our  memories,  but  what  has  passed  into 
our  characters  that  is  the  possession  of  our  lives.  The 
long-forgotten  deed  or  word  was  caught  up  into  your 
life.  Everything  in  you  was  different  because  of  it. 
And  here  it  is  in  you  to-day ;  not  a  seed  any  longer  but 
a  tree,  not  an  influence  but  a  character,  yet  carrying  in 
itself  forever  the  virtue  of  its  double  history,  —  that  it 
came  into  the  nature  and  that  it  became  the  nature ;  for 
we  are  parts  of  the  great  whole,  and  we  are  wholes 
ourselves. 

So  it  is  that  men  become  good  or  bad.  Such  is  the 
germ-theory  of  character.  So  credit  and  blame  are  in- 
tricately interwoven  and  shared  between  our  circum- 
stances and  ourselves ;  and  yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten 


276  The  Planter  and  the  Rain. 

to  be  said,  this  does  not  make  our  natures  indiscrimi- 
nate. It  is  not  true  that  they  lie  waiting  equally  in- 
different and  ready  to  give  growth  to  the  evil  and  the 
good.  The  truth  above  all  others  which  Christ  came 
to  declare  was  that  the  human  nature  had  its  prefer- 
ence ;  that  it  preferred  the  good,  and  gave  its  best  fos- 
tering to  that.  Forced  to  bestow  its  growth-power  on 
the  evil  if  the  evil  was  forced  upon  it,  it  felt  that  to 
be  a  violence.  It  lived  in  slavery  while  it  did  that. 
It  hated  the  work  it  had  to  do,  for  its  real  nature  was 
to  serve  the  good.  It  struggled  to  cast  out  and  to  re- 
fuse the  evil.  It  was  to  claim  that  for  it  and  to  tempt 
it  to  do  that  that  Jesus  came.  That  refusal  of  the 
power  of  growth  to  strengihen  and  vivify  the  bad  was 
complete  in  Him.  Only  the  good  that  came  to  Him 
commanded  His  strength.  And  ever  our  nature  strug- 
gles more  and  more  to  be  what  His  was  and  is,  who  was 
and  is  the  perfect  man ! 

The  truth  which  I  am  preaching  has  its  clearest  illus- 
tration, it  may  be,  in  the  way  in  which  God  has  sent 
into  the  world  the  Gospel  of  His  Son.  Most  sharp  and 
clear  and  definite  stands  out  in  history  the  life  and 
death  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  skies  are  broken  at  one 
special  point.  The  print  of  the  divine  footstep  is  on 
one  special  spot  of  earth.  The  Son  of  Man  comes  at 
one  special  date,  which  thenceforth  shines  supremely 
luminous  among  the  years.  It  was  the  entrance  of  a 
new,  divine  force  into  the  world.  But  what  has  been 
the  story  of  that  force  once  introduced  ?  You  have 
only  to  read  the  history  of  Christendom  and  you  will 
see.     It  has   been  subjected^  it^  i^^^  influences  which 


The  Planter  and  the  Bain.  277 

have  created  the  ordinary  currents  of  human  life.  The 
characters  and  thoughts  of  men  have  told  upon  it.  The 
Gospel  has  shared  in  the  fortunes  of  the  Christian 
world.  It  has  followed  in  the  track  of  conquering 
armies;  it  has  been  beaten  back  and  hindered  by  the 
tempests  of  revolution  and  misrule ;  it  has  been  tossed 
upon  the  waves  of  philosphical  speculation ;  it  has  been 
made  the  plaything  or  the  tool  of  politics;  it  has 
taken  possession  of  countries  and  centuries  only  by  tak^ 
ing  possession  of  men  through  the  natural  affections  of 
their  human  hearts ;  it  has  worked  through  institu- 
tions which  it  only  helped  to  create.  While  it  has 
helped  to  make  the  world,  it  has  also  at  every  moment 
been  made  by  the  world  into  something  different  from 
its  own  pure  self.  It  has  been  carried  forward  on  the 
tide  of  human  progress  to  which  it  was  always  itself 
giving  its  greatest  force  and  volume.  A  divine  gift  to 
the  world,  then  when  once  given  made  in  large  degree 
subject  to  the  nurturing  conditions  of  the  world  to 
which  it  had  been  given  —  what  but  this  has  been  the 
Gospel  of  God's  grace  ?  Is  not  its  story  told  in  the 
words  of  this  old  parable  ?  "  He  planteth  an  ash,  and 
then  the  rain  doth  nourish  it." 

If  you  try  to  take  either  half  of  the  truth  by  itself,  you 
get  into  the  midst  of  puzzle  and  mistake.  Think  of  the 
Gospel  simply  as  an  intrusion  of  divine  force  kept  apart 
from  any  mixture  with  the  influences  of  the  world,  and 
it  is  impossible  to  understand  the  forms  in  which  it 
has  been  allowed  to  present  itself.  Its  weaknesses  and 
its  strength  are  alike  unintelligible.  Think  of  it  as 
a  mere  development   of  human  life,    and   you  cannot 


278  The  Planter  and  the  Rain. 

conceive  how  it  came  to  exist  at  all.  But  consider  it 
in  its  completeness.  Remember  that  it  is  a  divine 
force  working  through  human  conditions ;  see  it  flowing 
through  the  deep  channels  of  the  universal  human  needs ; 
hear  it  summoning  to  its  standard  the  eternal  human 
hopes  and  fears ;  let  it  be  all  one  long  incarnation,  God 
manifest  in  the  flesh,  —  a  true  God,  with  the  real  strength 
of  Godhood  manifest  in  a  true  flesh,  cumbered  by  its 
hindrances  and  at  the  same  time  made  utterable  through 
its  sympathies,  —  and  then  you  see  at  once  why  it  is  so 
weak,  and  why  it  is  so  strong ;  why  it  has  not  occupied 
the  world  with  one  lightning  flash  of  power,  and  why  it 
must  at  last,  however  slowly,  accomplish  its  complete 
salvation. 

Oh,  wondrous  tree,  whose  seed  came  surely  from  the 
hand  of  God,  whose  growth  has  never  passed  out  of  His 
watchful  care,  which  He  has  set  here  in  this  rich,  way- 
ward, tumultuous  soil  of  human  life,  how  hast  thou 
wrestled  for  existence  with  this  bounteous  yet  reluctant 
ground,  how  hast  thou  sent  thy  roots  into  the  pierced 
heart  of  man's  affections !  Through  what  dark  stormy 
nights  hast  thou  struggled  with  the  winds,  and  grown 
strong  in  wrestling!  How  hast  thou  drawn  up  into 
thyself  what  is  eternal  and  spiritual  in  man  and  made 
it  claim  its  kinship  to  divinity !  Oh,  wondrous  tree ! 
oh,  Christian  faith!  oh.  Christian  Church!  so  small, 
so  strong !  what  would  the  world  be  without  thee  ? 
"What  wouldst  thou  be  without  the  world  ?  Grow  on 
till  in  thy  life  the  perfect  union  of  the  earth  and 
heaven,    of  God  and  man,   shall  be  complete! 

Every  Christian   is  a  little  Christendom;    and  the 


The  Planter  and  the  Bain.  279 

method  of  the  entrance  of  the  Gospel  into  the  great 
world  is  repeated  in  the  way  in  which  the  Gospel  enters 
into  every  soul,  which  then  it  occupies  and  changes. 
Again  there  is  the  special  act  of  the  implanting  of  the 
new  life,  and  then  there  is  the  intrusting  of  the  new- 
implanted  life  to  the  nature  and  its  circumstances.  Do 
you  remember,  oh,  my  Christian  friend !  Perhaps  the 
place  has  perished  from  the  earth ;  perhaps  the  fire  has 
swept  the  stately  church  away  in  which  the  Lord  first 
came  and  spoke  the  word  which  woke  you  from  your 
lethargy ;  perhaps  there  is  a  well-remembered  chamber 
in  some  house  here  in  the  city  where  strangers  have  long 
lived,  whose  threshold  you  have  not  crossed  nor  had 
the  right  to  cross  for  years,  but  into  which  your  memory 
at  any  instant  may  go  back  and  see,  almost  visible,  the 
figure  of  the  Saviour  who  stood  there  on  one  unforgotten 
night  and  said  to  you,  "  You  are  mine ; "  perhaps  it  is 
a  silent  wilderness ;  perhaps  it  is  the  corner  of  a  crowded 
street  which  you  can  never  pass  without  the  old  myste- 
rious wonder  growing  into  reality  again.  There  Christ 
came  to  you !  There  the  descent  from  heaven  silently 
took  place,  and  the  seed  was  in  the  soul ;  then  was  a 
new  miracle  of  grace.     The  man  was  born  again ! 

Since  then  long  years  have  come  and  gone.  What 
have  they  seen  ?  The  rain  has  nourished  it, — that  long- 
sown  seed !  Nothing  has  happened  since  which  has  not 
touched  that  seed  and  helped  or  hindered  its  maturity. 
Your  child's  death  twenty  years  ago,  your  failure,  your 
success  in  business,  the  fame  you  won  by  some  brilliant 
action,  the  book  you  wrote,  the  cause  you  argued,  the 
long  journey  which  you  made,  the  friend  you  won  or  lost ; 


280  The  Planter  and  the  Bain. 

and  things  more  silent,  more  subtle,  less  evident  and 
notable :  your  growing  older,  your  changing  thought  of 
life,  the  philosophical  idea  which  took  you  captive ;  and, 
deeper  still,  the  slow  and  steady  operation  of  your  es» 
sential  nature,  of  the  man  that  you  intrinsically  were, 
the  being  of  your  being,  —  all  of  these  have  held  the 
new  life  in  their  grasp.  They  all  have  poured  in  upon 
it  their  vitality.  They  have  made  it  a  different  thing 
from  any  other  Christian  life  in  all  the  Church.  They 
have  nourished  it ;  they  have  colored  and  shaped  it ;  and 
to-day  you  are  the  Christian  which  these  two  together 

—  the  historical  conversion  and  the  continuous  experi- 
ence —  have  created.  What  shall  we  say  that  God  has 
done  for  you  ?  Shall  not  our  parable  still  tell  the  story  ? 
"He  has  planted  an  ash,  and  the  rain  has  nourished  it." 

Still,  remember,  it  is  His  rain.  The  influences  into 
whose  influence  the  seed  was  given  still  were  God's.  He 
took  the  child,  and  gave  the  friend,  and  sent  you  on  the 
journey,  and  shaped  the  nature  which  bestowed  on  the 
Christian  life  its  distinctive  character.  It  is  not  a  dis- 
crimination between  what  God  does  and  what  you  do. 
God  forbid !  It  is  not  that !  God  is  behind  and  in  it 
all ;  but  it  is  the  perception  of  two  parts  of  His  working, 

—  one  in  which  He  comes  directly  from  the  heavens ;  the 
other  in  which,  through  your  essential  sonship  to  Him- 
self, He  ripens  the  seed  which  He  implanted  to  its  full 
result.     It  is  all  He.     He  is  all  and  in  all. 

How  beautiful  it  is !  Oh,  Christian,  lose  not  either 
portion  of  the  perfect  whole,  — not  the  divine  historic 
access  of  the  deeper  life,  not  the  subjection  of  the  total 
nature,  the  total  experience,  to  the  perfection  of  that 


The  Planter  and  the  Rain.  281 

divine  access  by  assured  possession.  Stand  forth,  oh, 
human  souls,  and  let  the  light  which  lighteth  every 
man  enter  into  you  all.  It  seems  to  enter  into  all 
alike.  But  then,  with  the  new  light  within  you  all,  go 
forth,  each  with  his  several  nature  to  his  several  life ; 
and,  oh,  the  myriad  glories  of  the  various  church,  the 
rainbow  splendor  of  the  heaven  which  slowly  builds  it- 
self, as  in  each  one  life  appropriates  grace  and  grace 
transfigures  life,  and  God  becomes  yours,  and  you  be- 
come God's  in  the  experience  of  which  eternity  shall 
see  no  end! 

These  have  been  more  or  less  clear  illustrations  and 
applications  of  our  principle.  May  we  not  say  that  the 
principle  itself  includes  the  whole  truth  of  the  super- 
natural and  its  relation  to  the  natural  ?  Let  me  give 
what  time  is  left  to  that.  What  is  the  picture  which 
the  verse  of  Isaiah  sets  before  our  eyes  ?  A  group  of 
ash-trees  are  growing  on  the  hill.  We  see  them  stand 
strong  and  substantial  in  the  ground.  Their  roots  are 
drinking  in  the  juices  of  the  earth;  their  branches 
catch  rhe  winds;  the  rain  descends  for  their  refresh- 
ment. We  come  back  to  them  year  after  year,  and  lo ! 
each  year  they  are  a  little  larger  than  they  were  the 
year  before.  They  live  and  grow,  and  all  their  life  and 
growth  appears  to  be  the  simple  outcome  of  their  terres- 
trial conditions.  If  we  let  our  questioning  run  back  no 
farther  than  the  years  which  we  and  our  fathers  can  re- 
member, these  ash -trees  are  the  creatures  of  the  earth, 
set  fast  into  its  bosom,  and  with  its  life  abundantly 
accounting  for  their  lives. 

But  by  and  by  there  comes  a  man  whose  questions 


282  The  Planter  and  the  Rain. 

will  not  be  content  within  that  limitation.  He  hears 
of  a  time  when  there  were  no  ash-trees  here.  He  asks 
behind  the  method  of  their  growth  the  method  of  their 
origin ;  and  then  he  learns  how  one  day,  long  ago,  there 
came  a  man  bringing  these  ash-trees  with  him,  and 
planted  them,  and  said  to  the  earth  and  to  the  elements, 
"Here,  I  give  these  to  you.  Take  them  and  nourish 
them  for  me. "  And  then,  when  he  has  discovered  that, 
the  story  of  the  ash-trees  is  complete.  Behind  the  law 
of  their  growth  has  been  set  the  fact  of  their  planting. 
Behind  the  process  there  is  a  beginning.  Behind  the 
natural  forces  of  their  nourishment  there  is  the  super- 
natural will  of  him  who  chose  that  they  should  be. 

And  now,  let  it  be  not  a  group  of  ash-trees  but  a  group 
of  men,  —  a  world-full  of  men.  They  too  stand  rooted 
in  the  earth.  Soil,  winds,  and  rain,  the  things  of 
earth,  its  nourishments  and  inspirations,  are  their 
food  and  drink.  They  are  what  you  are,  men  and 
women  who  are  listening  to  me  now.  The  earth  is 
theirs,  and  they  are  its.  Agnosticism  says  that  that  is 
all  which  it  is  possible  to  know  about  them.  Whence 
they  came,  what  hand  planted  them  here,  it  is  folly  to 
try  to  tell.  The  natural  is  everything.  "  The  rain  doth 
nourish  them. "  Religion  says,  "  They  must  have  come 
from  somewhere,  and  calls  the  Somewhere  which  they 
came  from  God.  The  lives  which  the  rain  nourishes 
He  planted.  There  is  a  supernatural.  I  feel  the  freer 
beating  of  a  will." 

If  we  are  not  agnostics  but  religious  men  taught  by 
the  voice  of  God  which  speaks  to  us  in  our  souls,  then 
this  is  the  view  which  we  hold  about  these  lives  of  ours. 


il 


The  Planter  and  the  Rain.  283 

my  brethren.  I  will  not  try,  here  at  a  sermon's  end,  to 
prove  that  that  view  is  true.  I  will  only  ask  you  to  see 
how  great  it  is,  and  beg  you  to  be  true  to  it  if  you  hold 
it ;  for  the  place  in  which  it  sets  your  life,  the  thing  it 
makes  out  of  your  life,  is  very  noble  and  inspiring. 
A  thought  of  God  intrusted  to  the  world  —  which,  re- 
member, is  itself  full  of  God  —  for  its  embodiment  and 
execution,  —  that  is  what  your  life  is  if  the  religious 
conception  of  life  is  true.  Tell  me,  does  the  definition 
as  you  get  hold  of  it  meet  and  correspond  with  no 
double  consciousness  about  yourself  within  yourself 
which  has  puzzled  you  a  thousand  times  ?  A  thought 
of  God  intrusted  to  the  earth  for  its  embodiment  and 
execution !  What  are  these  dreams  and  visions,  these 
upward  reachings,  these  certainties  of  infinite  belong- 
ings, these  remonstrances  with  earth  as  if  it  were  a  ty- 
rant holding  us  in  slavery  ?  What  are  they,  oh,  thought 
of  God,  but  the  unbroken  tension  of  the  chain  which 
binds  the  thinker  to  his  thought  forever  ?  And  what 
are  all  these  earthlinesses,  these  tender  clingings  to  the 
things  our  senses  understand,  these  practical  devices, 
these  comfortable  limitations,  these  perceived  adap- 
tivenesses,  these  dreads  of  the  vast  universe,  these 
calls  of  present  duties,  this  fear  of  dying,  this  love  of 
the  present,  warm,  domestic  earth,  —  what  are  they  all 
but  the  pressure  of  the  school -room  on  the  scholar,  of 
the  warm  ground  upon  the  seed  intrusted  to  it  ?  The 
man  who  does  not  somehow  hold  the  complete  truth 
about  his  life  —  both  of  these  truths  combined  in  one 
—  does  not  live  worthily.  The  man  who  has  and  holds 
them  both,  look,  what  a  life  he  lives !    Look  how  sub- 


284  The  Planter  and  the  Bain. 

stantially  his  roots  are  fastened  in  the  earth.  Look 
how  aspiringly  he  lifts  his  branches  to  the  sky. 

It  is  not  strange  that  in  the  greatest  of  all  human 
lives,  —  the  life  of  lives,  the  life  of  Jesus, — all  this  com- 
plete truth  about  the  life  of  man  should  be  most  mani- 
fest. A  thought  of  God  intrusted  to  the  earth  for  its 
embodiment  and  execution !  Hear  what  He  says  about 
Himself :  "  I  came  forth  from  the  Father  and  am  come 
into  the  world. "  Again,  "  I  leave  the  world  and  go  unto 
the  Father. "  "  I  came  forth  from  the  Father ! "  All  the 
mystery  of  Nazareth  is  in  those  words.  All  that  made 
that  birth  to  differ  from  the  births  of  other  men  as  be- 
ing more  immediately  the  utterance  of  a  thought  of  God 
is  in  these  words,  "I  came  forth  from  the  Father." 
And  "I  am  come  into  the  world."  All  the  distinct 
work  of  the  thirty-three  years,  all  the  development  of 
consciousness  by  propitious  or  unpropitious  circum- 
stances, all  the  perfecting  by  suffering,  and  finally  the 
cross  and  its  consequences  are  in  those  words,  "  I  came 
into  the  world."  A  thought  of  God's  intrusted  for  its 
embodiment  and  execution  to  the  earth ;  "  The  word  was 
made  flesh  and  dwelt  among  us, "  —  that  is  the  Incarna- 
tion. And  it  is  in  the  light  of  the  Incarnation  that  every 
man  must  understand  his  own  life  and  his  brethren's. 

His  own  life  and  his  brethren's,  I  say;  for  I  am  anx- 
ious to  have  you  feel  that  only  when  we  see  the  super- 
natural and  natural  meeting  in  our  brother's  life  can 
we  be  fair  to  him,  or  kind  to  him,  or  honor  him  as  a 
fellow-creature  ought  to  be  honored,  or  help  him  as  a 
fellow-creature  ought  to  be  helped.  Here  are  you,  set 
between  your  brethren  who  arc  more  fortunate  and  your 


The  Planter  and  the  Rain.  285 


brethren  who  are  less  fortunate  than  you  are.  On  one 
side  of  you  is  the  rich  and  popular  man,  who  can  do  you 
a  favor.  On  the  other  side  of  you  is  the  poor,  obscure 
man,  who  wants  your  favor  shown  to  him.  To  the  one 
you  are  tempted  to  be  obsequious,  to  the  other  you  are 
tempted  to  be  brutal.  Here  are  you  tempted  to  yield  to 
public  opinion  on  one  side,  and  tempted  to  despise  brave 
and  noble  earnestness  on  the  other.  Tell  me,  will  it  not 
set  you  right  with  both,  will  it  not  enable  you  to  keep 
your  respect  for  yourself  before  the  one  man  and  your 
respect  for  him  before  the  other  man  if  you  say  of  each 
of  them  as  you  look  him  in  the  face,  "  This  is  a  thought 
of  God  intrusted  to  the  earth  for  its  embodiment  and 
execution  "  ?  Two  thoughts  about  each  brother-man  must 
swallow  up  everything  beside  when  you  say  that  to 
yourself  about  any  fellow-creature,  —  the  thought  of 
the  sacredness  of  his  life,  and  the  desire  to  make  the 
earth  to  which  God  has  intrusted  him  as  full  of  helpful- 
ness, as  free  from  hindrance  for  him  as  you  can.  Oh, 
fathers  and  mothers,  say  it  of  the  children  in  your 
arms !  Oh,  students,  say  it  of  the  men  who  are  your 
fellow-students !  Oh,  friends,  say  it  of  the  friends  you 
love !  Oh,  enemies,  say  it  of  the  enemies  you  dare  to 
hate !  Oh,  helpers,  say  it  of  the  poor  you  help  1  Oh, 
suppliants,  say  it  of  the  rich  who  help  you !  Oh,  men 
and  women,  say  it  of  each  other,  everywhere !  "  This  is 
a  thought  of  God  intrusted  to  the  earth  for  its  embodi- 
ment and  execution. "  And  so  peace  and  responsibility 
and  elevation  shall  take  possession  of  all  human  inter- 
course, and  the  children  live  together  like  their  Father's 
children  in  their  Father's  house. 


2S6  The  Planter  and  the  Rain. 

Behold,  then,  here  is  the  issue  of  it  all !  We  live  to- 
gether between  the  solemn  heaven  and  the  solemn  earth. 
The  hand  which  planted  us  and  the  soil  in  which  we 
are  planted  —  both  of  them  are  real,  neither  of  them 
can  be  forgotten.  God  help  us  to  be  true  to  both.  God 
help  us  to  stand  in  the  world  with  natures  opened  up- 
ward to  receive  the  divinest  gifts,  with  natures  opened 
outward  to  catch  every  humblest  opportunity  which  life 
affords.  What  were  we  if  we  had  not  come  from  God  ? 
What  were  we  if  we  had  not  come  into  the  world  ?  Oh, 
by  the  God  we  came  from  and  by  the  world  into  which 
we  have  come,  let  us  be  men !  And  to  be  men  is  to  be 
images  of  Christ,  the  Tree  of  Life.  It  is  to  have  the 
Psalmist's  blessing,  to  be  trees  planted  by  the  waterside 
which  shall  bring  forth  their  fruit  in  due  season.  May 
that  blessing  come  to  all  of  us ! 


XVII. 

NEW  EXPEEIENCES. 
For  ye  have  not  passed  this  way  heretofore,  —  Joshua  iii.  4. 

It  was  just  before  the  entrance  of  the  children  of  Is- 
rael into  Canaan  that  these  words  were  spoken  to 
them.  For  three  days  their  camp  had  been  stretched 
along  the  low  hills  which  skirt  the  Jordan,  and  on  this 
fourth  day  the  officers  of  Joshua  went  through  their 
ranks  to  give  them  the  last  commands.  They  said, 
"When  ye  see  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant  of  the  Lord 
your  God,  and  the  priests,  the  Levites,  bearing  it,  then 
shall  ye  remove  from  your  place  and  go  after  it.  Yet 
there  shall  be  a  space  between  you  and  it,  about  two 
thousand  cubits  by  measure.  Come  not  near  unto  it, 
that  ye  may  know  the  way  by  which  ye  must  go ;  for 
ye  have  not  passed  this  way  heretofore. "  And  Joshua 
said  unto  the  people,  "  Sanctify  yourselves,  for  to-morrow 
the  Lord  will  do  wonders  among  you."  As  he  spoke 
the  Jews  became  solemn.  Their  long  journey  in  the 
desert  was  over,  and  the  mystery  of  an  unknown  country 
and  an  unknown  life  lay  before  them.  They  looked 
across  to  where  "  fair  Canaan  stood,  and  Jordan  rolled 
between ; "  and  all  their  pettier  life  was  hushed,  and 
they  grew  serious  and  thoughtful. 


288  New  Experiences. 


It  was  the  impressiveness  of  a  new  experience.  It 
was  the  departure  from  what  was  familiar,  a  long  habit 
of  life,  and  the  near  entrance  upon  something  new. 
That  always  makes  men  serious  when  they  realize  it. 
A  ship's  company  who  have  lived  together  for  a  few 
weeks,  growing  accustomed  to  their  shipboard  life,  at 
last  draw  near  the  land  toward  which  they  have  been 
sailing,  and  it  is  always  striking  to  see  how  a  quietness 
and  seriousness  seems  to  come  over  them  in  the  last 
hours  before  they  go  on  shore.  New  things  are  waiting 
for  them  there.  They  are  going  to  exchange  the  fa- 
miliar for  the  unfamiliar;  so  there  is  little  of  lightness 
and  much  seriousness.  And  this  is  the  way  in  which 
life  keeps  its  solemnity.  It  is  always  opening  new  and 
unexpected  things  to  us.  There  is  no  monotony  in 
living  to  him  who  walks  even  the  quietest  and  tamest 
paths  with  open  and  perceptive  eyes.  The  monotony 
of  life,  if  life  is  monotonous  to  you,  is  in  you,  not  in 
the  world.  It  may  be  that  you  think  all  days  alike, 
and  grow  weary  with  their  sameness,  and  get  none  of  the 
stimulus  and  solemnity  which  comes  from  constantly 
reaching  unexpected  places  and  experiences.  If  it  is 
so,  you  are  very  much  to  be  pitied.  You  cannot  think 
what  a  different,  what  a  more  solemn  and  delightful, 
place  this  world  is  to  a  man  who  goes  out  every  morn- 
ing into  a  new  world,  who  is  Adam  over  again  every 
day,  who  starts  each  day  with  the  certainty  that  he 
"has  not  passed  that  way  heretofore."  The  horse  in 
the  treadmill  does  not  live  a  life  more  different  from 
the  horse  on  the  prairies  than  your  life  is  from  such  a 
man's.     And   if  we  leave  out   of  account  the   merely 


New  Experiences.  289 


superficial  and  unreliable  difference  of  animal  spirits, 
the  fundamental  difference  of  the  two  lives  lies  in  the 
difference  of  their  perception  of  God.  It  is  God,  and 
the  discovery  of  Him  in  life,  and  the  certainty  that  He 
has  plans  for  our  lives  and  is  doing  something  with 
them,  that  gives  us  a  true,  deep  sense  of  movement, 
and  lets  us  always  feel  the  power  and  delight  of  un- 
known coming  things.  Without  Him  a  life  must  sink 
into  weary  monotony,  or  escape  it  only  by  artificial  and 
superficial  changes. 

Let  us  look  to-day  at  this  power  of  unprecedented 
things,  and  try  to  get  some  idea  of  the  true  way  to  ap- 
proach them.  And  if  we  think  of  this  story  of  the  Jews 
we  get  at  the  first  principle  of  the  matter  immediately. 
What  made  the  seriousness  and  impressiveness  of  their 
entrance  into  the  promised  land  was  the  mixture  of  the 
new  with  the  old  which  it  brought.  The  land  into 
which  they  were  to  go  was  new.  Never  before  had  their 
feet  trodden  the  western  bank  of  Jordan.  The  very 
unseen  bed  of  the  stream  itself  was  to  be  uncovered  that 
they  might  pass  through.  But  into  this  new  land  they 
were  to  be  led  by  the  old  familiar  ark  which  had  led 
them  all  the  way  from  Sinai.  A  new  land,  new  wars 
to  fight,  by  and  by  new  towns  to  dwell  in,  a  new  life  to 
live,  but  into  it  all  the  old  power  was  to  guide  them, 
in  it  all  they  were  to  live  by  the  same  old  principles 
and  under  the  same  old  care.  It  was  this  application 
of  the  old  principles  to  the  new  life  that  gave  the  seri- 
ousness to  their  position.  If  there  had  been  nothing  of 
that  sort,  if  they  had  been  going  to  leave  all  behind 
them,  and  this  new  world  were  wholly  another  world, 

19 


290  New  Experiences. 


where  nothing  of  their  old  experience  should  be  availa- 
ble, where  the  ark  could  not  lead  them,  where  God 
could  not  keep  them,  there  might  have  been  fright  and 
terror  as  they  prepared  to  enter ;  but  there  would  not 
have  been  that  bright,  calm,  thoughtful  seriousness 
which  bm'ns  in  the  words  of  Joshua,  and  seems  to 
glow  on  the  faces  of  the  waiting  Hebrews  all  through 
the  verses  of  this  significant  and  graphic  chapter. 
They  are  asking  themselves  about  God.  They  are  won- 
dering what  He  has  in  reserve  for  them.  They  are 
gathering  up  all  that  they  have  known  of  Him.  They 
are  pondering  how  their  thoughts  of  Him  will  be  modi- 
fied and  enlarged  in  the  new  experience.  The  past  and 
the  future,  like  the  waves  of  two  great  oceans,  are  meet- 
ing in  their  minds  as  they  stand  waiting  for  the  ark  to 
move  and  the  crossing  of  the  Jordan  to  begin. 

And  this  is  the  power  of  every  approach  to  what  is 
unprecedented.  It  is  that  we  cannot  leave  behind  the 
old  even  when  we  go  on  into  the  new.  It  is  that  every 
passage  into  new  and  untried  things  brings  out  the  es- 
sential principles  under  which  we  are  living,  unsnarls 
them  from  the  multitude  of  accidental  things  with 
which  they  have  been  entwined,  brings  out  their  real 
character,  develops  them  into  their  fuller  force  and 
clearness.     Let  us  see  how  this  is  true  in  several  ways. 

Apply  it  first  of  all  to  the  changes  which  are  coming 
all  the  time  in  the  circumstances  of  our  lives.  These 
changes  are  either  great  or  small.  Their  real  great- 
ness or  smallness  depends  upon  the  power  which  they 
possess  over  the  principles  by  which  we  are  living.  No 
change  in  life  is  small   which  really  brings  into  new 


New  Uxperiences.  291 


shapes  the  laws  and  principles  which  we  are  living  by. 
The  naturalist  over  his  microscope  watches  with  the  in- 
tensest  interest  some  just  perceptible  transformation  in 
some  obscure  part  of  an  animal  system,  because  he  sees 
that  the  laws  of  life  of  that  system  are  working  them- 
selves out  there  in  new  shapes  to  new  results.  Now 
when  a  change  comes  in  the  circumstances  of  our  lives 
you  will  see,  I  think,  if  you  consider  it,  that  what 
makes  it  interesting  is  that  you  go  into  the  new  condi- 
tion the  same  man  that  you  have  been,  and  that  some 
new  development  of  your  old  character  comes  out  in  the 
newer  life.  If  you  go  and  stand  in  the  midst  of  Lon- 
don, or  climb  to  the  top  of  the  Pyramids,  or  set  your- 
self in  the  middle  of  a  snow-field  of  the  Alps,  it  is  a 
thrilling  and  delightful  experience.  What  is  it  that 
makes  it  so  ?  It  is  that  you  carry  your  old  self  there. 
Some  accidental  parts  of  yourself  you  have  left  behind 
in  Boston,  but  your  essential  self,  with  your  habits  and 
your  ways  of  thinking,  you  have  carried  there ;  and  the 
wonder  is  to  feel  this  identity  of  yours  standing  among 
these  unfamiliar  things,  beaten  by  the  waves  of  this 
strange  city  life,  frowned  on  by  the  hoary  ages,  or 
lighted  by  the  glory  of  the  everlasting  snows.  You 
realize  yourself  there  with  a  strange  and  sharp  distinct- 
ness ;  and  then  you  feel  this  identity  of  yours,  without 
ceasing  to  be  itself,  becoming  larger  for  the  new  things 
about  it,  accomplishing  its  completest  thought  and  life, 
prophesying  for  itself  destinies,  declaring  for  itself  ca- 
pacities, as  it  did  not  do  at  home.  These  are  the  two 
pleasures  of  the  traveller  who  has  any  disposition  to- 
ward philosophy  and  self-inspection.     The  new  places 


292  New  Experiences. 


where  he  goes  first  bring  out  his  own  familiar  individ- 
uality into  clearness,  and  then  ripen  it  to  some  finer 
quality  or  larger  size ;  but  this  of  course  depends  upon 
his  carrying  his  old  self  there  with  him.  If  he  did  not 
do  that,  London  and  Egypt  would  be  no  more  to  him 
than  they  are  to  the  Londoners  and  the  Egyptians  who 
have  lived  there  always ;  whereas  they  really  are  many 
things  to  us  which  they  cannot  be  to  them. 

And  now  let  it  be  the  going,  not  from  Boston  to  Egypt, 
but  from  wealth  to  poverty,  from  poverty  to  wealth, 
from  health  to  sickness,  from  sickness  to  health,  from 
one  business  to  another  business,  from  one  home  to 
another  home.  The  poetry  and  lesson  of  it  all  seems 
to  me  to  lie  in  this,  that  the  change  of  life  takes  its 
value  from  the  continuity  of  life.  The  change  of  life 
first  brings  out  the  fact  of  what  you  are,  and  then  pro- 
ceeds to  work  its  changes  in  that  fact.  You  have  been 
apprehending  God  after  one  fashion,  from  one  point  of 
view,  while  you  were  a  poor  man ;  now,  behold !  wealth 
is  opening  before  you.  Bright  paths  unfold  themselves 
all  carpeted  with  flowers.  You  have  not  passed  that 
way  before.  You  are  going  to  enter  it  next  week  when 
the  fortune  drops  from  the  ripe  tree  into  your  lap. 
And  when  you  have  entered  there,  what  will  really  be 
the  significant  and  interesting  fact  to  yourself  and 
other  people  ?  Not  certainly  that  there  is  one  less  poor 
man  in  the  world  and  one  more  rich  man,  —  as  if  the 
poor  man  that  is  gone  and  the  rich  man  that  has  come 
were  wholly  different  beings  who  had  no  relation  to 
each  other,  —  but  that  this  rich  man  was  the  poor  man, 
that  he  has  come  into  wealth  with  the  experiences  of 


New  Experiences.  293 


his  poverty,  that  he  is  filling  out  the  idea  of  God 
which  he  got  when  he  was  poor,  by  the  new  sight  of 
God  which  he  is  having  inside  the  walls  of  gold.  Oh, 
my  dear  friends,  when  any  of  the  changes  of  life  draws 
near  to  yon,  whenever  God  is  leading  you  into  new  cir- 
cumstances, clasp  with  new  fervor  and  strength  the  old 
hand  which  you  have  long  been  holding,  but  prepare  to 
feel  it  send  new  meanings  to  you  as  it  clasps  your  hand 
with  a  larger  hold.  And  since  you  are  always  entering 
into  some  new  life,  whether  it  mark  itself  by  notable 
outward  change  or  not,  always  hold  the  hand  of  God  in 
grateful  memory  of  past  guidance  and  eager  readiness 
for  new,  —  that  is,  in  love  and  in  faith. 

It  is  by  this  same  principle  that  we  are  able  to  picture 
to  ourselves  the  natural  and  healthy  way  by  which  men 
ought  to  pass  from  one  period  or  age  of  life  into  another. 
The  principle  is,  that  the  new  and  unprecedented  is  to 
be  entered  under  the  guidance  of  the  old  and  famil- 
iar, the  old  and  familiar  being  expected  to  show  them- 
selves in  altered  and  larger  ways  when  they  have  brought 
us  into  the  new.  Evidently  such  a  principle  would 
redeem  the  fragmentariness  of  life,  and  make  it  one 
great,  growing  whole.  For  there  come  great  breaks  in 
men's  spiritual  history  as  men  pass  from  one  period  of 
life  to  another.  The  worst  and  the  most  seemingly  ir- 
reparable of  them  all  is  that  one  to  which  apparently 
people  have  made  up  their  minds  as  if  it  were  some- 
thing that  could  not  be  avoided.  I  mean  the  break  be- 
tween the  child's  religion  and  the  man's,  — the  violent 
break  which  comes  in  later  boyhood  and  earlier  youth, 
when,  having  ceased  to  obey  mere  authority  and  to  believQ 


294  New  Experiences. 

what  he  is  taught  implicitly,  the  human  creature  has 
not  yet  attained  the  faith  and  life  of  reason  and  personal 
conviction.  A  young  man's  life  is  full  of  novelty. 
"  You  have  not  passed  this  way  heretofore "  seems 
written  upon  every  fascinating  new  pathway  down  which 
he  walks.  His  freedom  is  a  novelty.  His  bold  begin- 
nings of  individual  reason  are  all  new.  Behind  him, 
with  a  river  rolling  between,  there  lies  that  despised 
land  in  which  he  was  a  child,  bound  to  obey  what  others 
commanded,  and  not  knowing  enough  to  doubt  what 
others  said  was  true.  What  shall  we  say  about  the 
progress  which  the  boy  seems  to  have  made  across  the 
gap  that  lies  between  him  and  his  childhood  ?  Shall  we 
not  certainly  say  this,  that  the  progress  is  natural  and 
healthy  and  good,  that  the  gap  is  unnatural  and  bad  ? 
It  is  right  that  he  who  has  been  a  child  in  leading-strings 
should  rejoice  in  the  conscious  power  of  walking  alone. 
It  is  wrong  that  he  should  cast  aside  all  the  culture 
and  strength  which  he  gathered  while  he  was  being 
held  and  carried,  and  should  insist  on  counting  those 
years  all  thrown  away.  The  boy,  aware  that  the  years 
are  close  upon  him  when  he  must  act  for  himself  and 
hold  his  belief  upon  his  own  conviction,  is  foolish  if  he 
does  not  accept  the  responsibility,  and  seek  to  understand 
the  world  and  the  faith  with  which  he  has  to  deal ;  but 
he  is  no  less  foolish  if  in  the  desire  for  manliness  and 
originality,  he  throws  away  all  that  has  been  taught 
him  as  a  child,  and  grows  contemptuous  about  it.  The 
true  birth  of  manliness,  the  true  originality  of  the  boy 
coming  to  be  a  man,  is  seen  in  him  who,  taking  the 
faith  and  discipline  of  his  childhood,  makes  it  his  own, 


New  Experiences.  295 


applies  it  to  his  own  life,  finds  its  peculiar  adjustments 
to  his  own  character.  I  think  there  is  no  better  condi- 
tion of  the  human  nature  to  contemplate  than  that  of  a 
young  man  dealing  truly  and  seriously  with  the  faith 
of  his  fathers  which  has  been  implicitly  his  child- 
hood's faith.  He  finds  new  questions  rising  which  he 
never  dreamed  of.  He  sees  new  tasks  unfolding  most 
perplexingly.  The  belief  in  God  and  Christ  which  has 
been  vague  to  him  begins  to  grow  clear  as  his  new  needs 
call  out  new  reality  from  it.  As  his  faith  becomes 
clearer,  no  doubt  it  changes  in  this  part  or  that.  The 
faith  which  is  shaping  for  his  manhood  evidently  is  not 
to  be  wholly  the  same  as  that  in  which  he  was  trained. 
He  is  to  see  more  of  God,  he  is  to  see  God  differently ; 
but  the  essential  thing  is  this,  that  it  is  to  be  the  same 
God  whom  he  has  been  seeing,  that  he  is  still  to  see. 
There  is  to  be  no  dreadful  gap  in  which,  with  crude 
impiety,  he  rebels  against  God  altogether.  It  is  to  be  an 
enlargement  of  faith  as  he  makes  it  his  own,  not  a 
flinging  away  of  faith  with  a  mere  possibility  of  finding 
it  again  some  day. 

This  is  the  meaning  of  a  boy's,  or  a  young  man's,  con- 
firmation. That  is  the  time  in  life  when  confirmation 
ought  to  come.  Not  in  mere  childhood,  when  the  life 
is  still  wholly  under  other  people's  influence ;  not,  un- 
less it  has  been  put  off  by  neglect  before,  in  those  later 
years  when  manhood  is  an  old  story,  and  the  nature 
is  hard  with  long  doubt  and  hesitation ;  but  it  ought  to 
come  just  when  the  new  freedom  is  beginning  to  be  felt, 
when  obedience  to  authority  is  opening  into  personal  re- 
sponsibility, when  the  implicit  faith  is  Just  asking  for 


296  New  Experiences. 


its  soul  of  reason,  and  anticipating  the  changes  which 
shall  make  it  the  peculiar  faith  of  this  peculiar  life,  — 
then  it  is  that  confirmation  has  its  fullest  meaning. 
It  is  the  gathering  up  of  all  the  faith  and  dutiful  im- 
pulse of  the  past  that  it  may  go  before  the  life  into  the 
untried  fields.  All  later  times  for  it  —  though  it  is 
good  indeed  to  seize  them  if  the  true  time  has  been  al- 
lowed to  slip  by  —  all  later  times  for  confirmation  are 
as  if  the  Jews  had  forgotten  the  ark  when  they  crossed 
the  Jordan  and  had  to  send  back  for  it  when  they  were 
fighting  their  hard  battles  before  Jerusalem  or  Ai.  But 
the  boy's  confirmation  is  like  the  host  refusing  to  cross 
the  river,  beyond  which  lay  the  untrodden  land,  unless 
they  saw  the  ark  going  through  the  water  first,  so  that 
they  could  follow  it. 

All  this  applies  indeed  to  every  change  from  period  to 
period  of  life.  The  poetry  of  all  growing  life  consists 
in  carrying  an  oldness  into  a  newness,  a  past  into  a 
future,  always.  So  only  can  our  days  possibly  be  bound 
"  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. "  I  would  not  for  the 
world  think  that  twenty  years  hence  I  should  have 
ceased  to  see  the  things  which  I  see  now,  and  love  them 
still.  It  would  make  life  wearisome  beyond  expres- 
sion if  I  thought  that  twenty  years  hence  I  should  see 
them  just  as  I  see  them  now,  and  love  them  with  no 
deeper  love  because  of  other  visions  of  their  lovable- 
ness.  And  so  there  comes  this  deep  and  simple  rule  for 
any  man  as  he  crosses  the  line  dividing  one  period  of 
his  life  from  another,  the  same  rule  which  he  may  use 
also  as  he  passes  through  any  critical  occurrence  of  his 
life;    Make  it  a  time  in  which  you  shall  realize  your 


New  Experiences.  297 


faith,  and  also  in  which  you  shall  expect  of  your  faith 
new  and  greater  things.  Take  what  you  believe  and 
are  and  hold  it  in  your  hand  with  new  firmness  as  you 
go  forward ;  but  as  you  go,  holding  it,  look  on  it  with 
continual  and  confident  expectation  to  see  it  open  into 
something  greater  and  truer. 

No  doubt  there  is  something  which  every  critical 
change  in  the  circumstances  of  life,  or  a  change  from 
one  period  of  life  to  another,  gives  us  the  chance  to 
cast  away  and  leave  behind.  No  doubt  the  Israelites 
left  in  heaps  the  accumulated  rubbish  of  their  desert 
journey,  —  their  worn-out  clothing  and  their  ragged 
shoes,  —  on  the  eastern  bank  of  Jordan ;  but  they  took 
the  ark  with  them.  So  let  every  call  that  comes  to  us 
to  enter  into  new  and  untried  ways  be  to  us  the  summons 
to  leave  our  worthless  way  and  foolish  sins  behind  us, 
but  to  tighten  our  hold  on  truth  and  goodness,  to  re- 
new the  covenant  of  our  souls  with  God  before  we  go  on 
where  He  shall  lead  us. 

I  think,  again,  that  the  picture  of  the  relation  between 
the  old  and  the  new  which  is  seen  in  our  story  throws 
light  upon  the  true  method  and  spirit  of  all  change  in 
religious  opinions.  The  change  of  one  religious  opinion 
for  another  is,  if  we  think  of  it,  a  profoundly  serious 
thing.  It  is  an  alteration  in  our  thought  of  God ;  and 
if  our  thoughts  of  God  are  real  thoughts,  they  decide 
what  we  are.  And  so  a  change  in  our  thought  of  God 
must  be  a  change  in  us.  "  As  he  thinketh  in  his  heart, 
so  is  he,"  said  Solomon.  And  a  different  way  of  think- 
ing in  our  hearts  ought  to  make  us  different  men.  But 
there  is  little  of  this  feelinp;  oi  seriousness  very  often 


298  New  Experiences. 


in  the  way  in  which  people  say  that  they  change  their 
faith.  A  light  and  careless  toss  from  creed  to  creed 
seems  often  to  be  all  that  one  can  see.  "  I  used  to  be  a 
Unitarian,  but  now  I  am  a  Trinitarian."  "I  used  to 
think  so  and  so  about  eternal  punishment,  but  now  I 
have  changed  my  views  and  think  so  and  so  instead. " 
You  know  how  frivolously  in  the  gaps  of  other  talk  peo- 
ple say  things  like  these.  And  there  is  no  community 
where  such  words  are  heard  more  plentifully  than  in 
this  community  where  we  live.  It  is  not  good.  I  think 
that  the  most  stationary  bigot,  who  is  what  he  is  for  no 
other  reason  in  the  world  except  that  he  has  been  it  for 
so  long,  is  better  than  this  vagrant  among  the  creeds. 

But  yet  there  must  come  changes  of  religious  faith. 
Men  and  women  do  go  on,  led  by  God,  step  by  step, 
until  they  come  where  what  has  seemed  to  them  to  be 
true,  seems  to  them  to  be  true  no  longer,  and  some- 
thing which  they  once  disbelieved  has  opened  to  them 
its  soul  of  truth.  Another  spiritual  prospect  opens  to 
them  which  they  never  saw  before.  God  is  different ; 
the  Bible  is  very  different ;  Christ  is  profoundly  differ- 
ent ;  and  their  own  natures  reveal  to  them  sights  which 
are  all  strange  and  unexpected.  These  are  not  the 
people  who  parade  their  change  of  faith.  These  are 
not  they  who,  having  been  noisy  partisans  of  one  creed, 
are  heard  in  a  few  days  among  the  noisiest  of  shouters 
for  another.  They  are  people  with  whom  the  change 
has  come  in  silence.  In  their  quiet  rooms,  in  calm 
and  prayerful  thought,  taking  deep  hold  of  them  so 
that  they  are  wholly  ready  to  accept  the  consequences 
of  their  faith  and  be  something  different  because  of  the 


New  Experiences.  299 


new  belief  they  hold,  in  silence  that  is  full  of  fear  and 
hope,  slowly  and  patiently,  so  their  new  view  of  truth 
has  come  to  them.  But  it  has  come.  No  longer  is 
there  any  doubt  about  its  imminence.  They  stand  upon 
the  brink  of  the  thin  line  that  separates  them  from  ito 
No  longer  can  the  full  entrance  into  it  be  delayed. 

There  is  no  sense  of  newness  and  inexperience  in  the 
world  like  that.  No  change  of  outward  circumstances 
can  for  a  moment  match  it.  "  You  have  not  passed  this 
way  before  "  seems  to  be  rung  into  the  soul's  ears  out 
of  every  new  application  of  the  new-learnt  truth  to 
everything.  And  then,  just  then,  when  all  seems  new, 
and  we  are  bewildered  and  exalted  with  the  opening 
spiritual  prospect,  then  is  the  time  to  call  up  the  Ark 
of  God,  which  may  have  fallen  in  the  rear,  and  to  set  it 
clearly  in  the  front.  Then,  when  you  are  going  forth 
into  regions  of  spiritual  thought  that  are  new  to  you, 
then  you  need  to  put  all  the  honesty  and  purity  and  un- 
selfishness of  your  nature  in  the  van  of  your  life ;  then 
you  need  to  review  and  renew  your  old  covenant  with 
God;  then  you  want  to  have  all  your  earnestness,  all 
your  sense  of  the  value  of  truth,  refreshed  in  you.  Be- 
lieve me,  my  dear  friends,  this  is  the  only  salvation  of  a 
man  who  is  compelled  to  change  his  opinions  of  relig- 
ious truth,  that  in  doing  it  he  should  become  a  more 
spiritual  man.  If  he  does  not,  the  change  will  demoral- 
ize him.  It  is  so  in  the  world.  A  change  of  creed 
coming  in  a  frivolous  and  unspiritual  age  shakes  the 
whole  fabric  of  religion;  but  a  change  of  religious 
thought  among  men  full  of  religious  earnestness  is 
quickening  and  reviving.     Do  not  let  yourself  conteTi- 


300  New  Ex'pcriences. 


plate  any  new  view  of  truth,  though  you  be  sure  that  it 
is  truer  than  the  old,  unless  you  are  sure  that  what 
leads  you  to  it  is  a  deep  desire  for  holiness  and  a  real 
love  of  truth,  and  a  real  love  of  God.  "Where  they 
lead  you,  you  may  freely  go,  and  the  land  shall  be  very 
rich  under  your  feet. 

The  principle  which  we  have  been  studying  seems  to 
furnish  again  the  law  of  all  more  distinctly  spiritual 
life  and  progress.  It  furnishes  the  law  of  the  conver- 
sion-time, for  there  the  new  and  old  unite ;  we  pass  on 
into  the  new  under  the  guidance  and  assurance  of  the 
old.  What  is  it  that  comes  in  that  day  when  a  man 
begins  the  Christian  life  ?  Across  a  resolution  which 
may  be  hard  or  easy  for  him,  he  sets  forth  into  a  new 
way  of  living.  How  often  I  have  tried  to  tell  to  you  the 
story  of  that  newness !  How  many  of  you  have  known 
it  well  out  of  your  own  experience !  He  who  has  been 
living  alone  begins  to  live  with  God.  He  who  has 
been  living  for  himself  begins  to  live  for  other  men. 
New  motives  are  open  within  him ;  new  tasks  are  spread 
before  him.  Old  things  are  passed  away;  all  things 
are  become  new.  And  yet  consider !  Is  not  a  very  large 
part  of  the  impulse  which  propels  the  new  life  born  of 
the  late  discovered  knowledge  of  what  the  life  has  been 
before  ?  If  you  want  to  make  a  man  a  Christian,  how 
shall  you  begin  ?  Will  you  tell  him  of  Christ  as  if 
then  for  the  first  time  he  and  Christ  had  anything  to 
do  with  one  another  ?  Will  you  emphasize  the  moment 
of  the  change  so  strongly  that  it  shall  seem  as  if,  before 
that,  as  he  had  cared  nothing  for  the  Saviour,  the  Saviour 
also  had  cared  nothing  for  him  ?    No ;  you  will  tell  him, 


New  £xpc7'iences.  301 


if  you  know  your  blessed  work,  of  a  power  which  has 
been  in  his  life  from  the  moment  that  his  life  be- 
gan. You  will  bid  him  open  his  ears  and  hear  the 
voice  of  a  Saviour  who  has  been  always  pleading.  You 
will  call  up,  out  of  the  past,  signs  of  God's  love  which 
he  has  never  seen,  but  which  have  been  always  there. 
You  will  set  those  signs  of  a  love  which  has  always  been, 
at  the  head  of  the  progress  which  is  yet  to  be.  You 
will  say,  "  I  beseech  you  therefore,  brother,  by  the  mer- 
cies of  God  that  you  present  your  body  a  living  sacrifice 
to  Him. "  "  By  all  the  love  which  He  has  shown  you 
when  you  were  most  ungrateful  now  give  yourself  to 
Him,   and  go  forward  in  His  service." 

Conversion  would  be  something  very  different  from 
what  it  is  if  this  were  not  so.  The  old  life  would  go 
for  nothing.  No  motive,  no  teaching,  would  come  out 
of  it.  It  would  be  as  if  the  stream  of  Jordan  were  the 
stream  of  Lethe,  bringing  forgetfulness  of  all  the  past, 
and  sending  out  the  souls  of  men  upon  the  other  side  as 
if  that  were  the  first  beginning  of  their  history.  But 
no,  take  the  new  Christian  and  ask  him  what  it  means ; 
and  all  the  absorbing  interest  and  hope  of  his  story 
rests  on  this :  "  See  what  a  life  I  have  lived !  I  have 
neglected  Christ ;  I  have  been  selfish.  I  have  done  my 
will  and  not  His ;  I  have  not  even  thought  about  Him 
all  the  time ;  and  yet  see,  He  has  been  loving  me  all 
these  years.  He  never  has  forgotten  me.  He  has  been 
loving  me  and  helping  from  the  beginning.  My  eyes 
have  just  been  opened.  I  have  just  found  it  out.  Hence- 
forth that  late-discovered  love  will  be  the  power  of  my 
life.     It  will  lead  me  forward  into  other  wavs  than  those 


302  New  ExperieTwes. 


in  which  I  have  been  walking."  And  so,  as  the  host 
of  the  Israelites  stopped  by  the  Jordan's  bank  before 
they  crossed,  until  the  old  ark  of  the  desert  had  swept 
through  their  ranks  and  taken  its  true  place  at  their 
head,  the  believer's  new  conviction  and  hope  waits  on 
the  brink  of  the  new  life  till  the  mercies  of  the  past 
have  swept  on  to  the  front,  and  stand  ready  to  lead  into 
the  yet  untrodden  fields  of  God. 

Such  be  the  new  life  when  it  comes  to  you,  my  friends ! 
From  childhood  God  has  loved  you,  God  has  kept  you. 
When  you  are  moved  to  give  yourself  to  God,  let  there 
come  out  of  all  that  love  and  keeping  one  large,  strong, 
deep  assurance  of  God's  love.  On  that  love  cast  your- 
self and  beg  forgiveness,  and  then  go  forward  under  its 
assurance,  giving  yourself  always  more  and  more  com- 
pletely to  a  God  who  does  not  need  to  give  Himself  to 
you  because  He  has  been  always  yours. 

All  this  does  not  apply  only  to  the  one  critical  experi- 
ence of  the  spiritual  life  which  we  call  conversion ;  it  is 
true  of  all  spiritual  progress.  Never  let  your  Christian 
life  disown  its  past.  Let  every  new  and  higher  consecra- 
tion and  enjoyment  into  which  you  enter  be  made  real 
to  you  by  bringing  into  it  all  that  Christ  has  already 
trained  within  you  of  grace  and  knowledge.  I  do  not 
like  to  hear  a  Christian  say  of  some  great  enlightenment 
of  his  life,  "I  never  knew  what  Christ  was  till  then. 
All  my  Christian  life  before  that  was  worthless,  and 
goes  for  nothing. "  There  are  Christians  who  are  fond 
of  saying  such  things.  Their  experiences  are  all  spas- 
modic, full  of  jerks  and  starts.  The  probability  is  that 
God  led  you  up  to  that  enlightenment  by  all  that  went 


New  Experiences.  303 


before.  You  never  could  have  apprehended  that  truth  or 
seen  that  glory  of  which  you  make  so  much,  if  first  He 
had  not  led  you  through  the  dark  and  quiet  places  which 
you  now  despise.  To  the  soul  which  dares  believe  the 
vast  and  precious  truth  of  God's  personal  love,  all  life 
becomes  significant,  and  no  past  is  so  dreary  that  out  of 
it  there  will  not  come  up  some  ark  of  God  to  lead  us  to 
the  richer  things  beyond. 

I  pass  to  one  more  application  of  our  principle  on 
which  I  must  not  dwell  at  length.  It  concerns  our 
thoughts  about  the  new  life  which  awaits  the  soul  in 
heaven.  We  think  of  the  strangeness  of  that  life  into 
which  they  pass  who  have  done  with  all  the  old  familiar 
things  of  earth.  Once,  only  once,  for  every  man  it 
comes.  No  feet  pass  twice  down  that  dim  avenue 
which  we  call  death;  so  that  for  every  one  who  passes 
there,  all  that  he  sees  is  strange  and  new.  This  is  the 
wonder,  the  impressiveness  of  death,  I  think.  The 
common  road  grows  tame  because  the  feet  have  trodden 
it  a  hundred  times,  and  the  eyes  have  grown  familiar 
with  its  scenery  until  it  has  ceased  to  be  noted  any 
longer.  I  think  that  any  road  anywhere  on  the  earth 
over  which  all  men  on  earth  passed  once,  and  through 
which  no  man  on  earth  might  pass  twice,  would  become 
solemn  and  awful  to  the  thoughts  of  men.  So  it  is  of 
death  and  all  that  lies  beyond.  "  We  have  not  passed 
this  way  heretofore, "  men  are  saying  to  themselves  as 
they  begin  to  feel  their  path  slope  downward  to  the 
grave.  It  is  that  consciousness  which  we  see  coming 
in  their  faces  when  they  know  that  they  must  die.  And 
beyond  death  lies  the  unknown  world.     "  No  man  hath 


304  N&io  Experiences. 


seen  God  at  any  time, "  said  Jesus ;  but  there  the  power 
of  the  new  life  is  to  be  that  "  we  shall  see  Him  as  He 
is. "  It  is  our  privilege  to  dwell  upon  the  untold,  un- 
guessed  glory  of  the  world  that  is  to  come.  It  is  a 
poor  economy  of  spiritual  motive  which  tries  to  make 
heaven  real  by  taking  out  of  it  all  thought  of  inexpressi- 
ble and  new  delight,  and  bringing  it  down  to  the  tame 
repetition  of  the  scenes  and  ways  of  earth.  But  no  man 
listens  to  the  talk  or  reads  the  books  which  are  often 
popular,  about  heaven,  without  feeling  that  the  glory 
and  delight  of  which  they  speak  are  far  too  completely 
separated  in  kind  from  any  which  this  world's  experi- 
ence has  taught  us  how  to  value.  It  ought  not  to  be 
so.  The  highest,  truest  thought  of  heaven  which  man 
can  have  is  of  the  full  completion  of  those  processes 
whose  beginning  he  has  witnessed  here,  their  completion 
into  degrees  of  perfectness  as  yet  inconceivable,  but  still 
one  in  kind  with  what  he  is  aware  of  now. 

Having  this  thought  of  heaven,  all  the  deepest  life  of 
this  world  is  leading  the  man  toward  it.  When  he 
goes  in  there  at  last,  it  will  be  his  old  life  with  God 
that  leads  him.  It  will  be  his  long  desire  to  see  God 
which  at  last  introduces  him  to  the  sight  of  God.  It 
will  be  his  long  struggle  with  sin  which  finally  prepares 
him  for  the  world  where  he  can  never  sin.  Let  this  be 
the  glory  that  gathers  around  your  daily  experiences, 
my  Christian  friends.  Poor,  weak,  homely,  common- 
place as  they  may  be,  they  are  preparing  you  for  some- 
thing far  greater  and  more  perfect  than  themselves.  Be 
true  in  them,  learn  them  down  to  their  depths  and  they 
shall  open  heaven  to  you  some  day.     The  powers  and 


New  Experiences.  305 


affection  which  are  training  in  your  family,  your  busi- 
ness, and  your  church  are  to  find  their  eternal  occupa- 
tion along  the  streets  of  gold.  "  Well  done,  good  and 
faithful  servant,  thou  hast  been  faithful  over  a  few 
things.  I  will  make  thee  ruler  over  many  things.  En- 
ter thou  into  the  glory  of  thy  Lord. "  And  so  the  long 
life  of  heaven  shall  be  bound  to  the  short  life  of  earth 
forever. 

It  is  good  then  for  a  man  to  come  to  a  future  which 
he  does  not  know.  It  is  good  for  you  if  God  brings  you 
to  the  borders  of  some  promised  land.  Do  not  hesitate 
at  any  experience  because  of  its  novelty.  Do  not  draw 
back  from  any  way  because  you  never  have  passed  there 
before.  The  truth,  the  task,  the  joy,  the  suffering  on 
whose  border  you  are  standing,  oh,  my  friend,  to-day, 
go  into  it  without  a  fear;  only,  go  into  it  with  God, 
—  the  God  who  has  been  always  with  you.  Let  the 
past  give  up  to  you  all  the  assurance  of  Him  which 
it  contains.  Set  that  assurance  of  Him  before  you. 
Follow  that,  and  the  new  life  to  which  it  leads  you 
shall  open  its  best  richness  to  you;  for  he  who  most 
humbly  owns  what  God  has  given  him  and  taught  him 
already  is  surest  of  the  best  and  deepest  blessings  and 
teachings  which  God  has  yet  to  give. 


XVIII. 

THE  PEEFECT  FAITH. 

Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  Him.  —  Job  xiii,  16. 

These  words  have  always  seemed  to  be  the  expression 
of  the  profoimdest  faith.  When  David  sings,  "I  will 
sing  unto  the  Lord  because  He  hath  dealt  bountifully 
with  me,"  it  seems  to  be  something  which  all  men  can 
understand.  It  is  a  gratitude  and  trust  won  by  visible 
mercy.  But  when  a  soul  is  able  to  declare  that  even 
under  the  smiting,  ay,  even  under  the  slaying,  of  God 
it  is  able  still  to  trust  in  Him,  every  one  feels  that  that 
soul  has  reached  a  very  true  and  deep,  sometimes  it 
must  seem  a  rare,  faith  in  Him. 

And  yet  it  is  a  degree  of  faith  which  we  know  that 
men  must  have  attained  before  they  can  be  in  any  com- 
plete or  worthy  way  believers  in  God.  Merely  to  trust 
Him  when  He  is  manifestly  kind  to  them,  is  surely  not 
enough.  A  man's  own  soul  cannot  be  satisfied  with 
that.  A  man  questions  himself  whether  that  is  faith  at 
all;  whether  it  is  not  merely  sight.  Everywhere  and 
always  any  lofty  conception  of  trust  has  been  compelled 
not  to  stop  short  of  this:  such  an  entrance  into  the 
nature  and  character  of  the  trusted  person  that  even 
when  he  seemed  to  be  unreasonable  and  disappointing 
and  unkind   the   faithful   soul   could  trust   him   still. 


Tlie  Perfect  Faith.  307 

Always  the  man  who  really  wanted  to  completely  trust 
another  man  has  been  obliged  to  feel  that  his  trust  was 
not  complete  if  it  stopped  short  of  that. 

They  are  words  that  might  be  said  almost  in  despera- 
tion. The  soul,  compelled  to  realize  that  there  was  no 
other  hope  for  it,  that  if  this  hope  failed  it  every  hope 
was  gone,  and  feeling  that  it  could  not  live  without  some 
hope,  might  say,  "  I  must  and  will  keep  faith  in  God. 
No  matter  how  He  fails  me  I  will  cling  to  Him  still; 
for  I  must  cling  to  something  still,  and  there  is  nothing 
else  to  cling  to,  and  so,  though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I 
trust  Him. "  This  is  the  spirit  of  a  familiar  hymn  which 
always  seemed  to  me  doubtful  as  the  expression  of  a 
healthy  or  even  of  a  possible  experience. 

•'  I  can  but  perish  if  I  go. 
I  am  resolved  to  try  ; 
For  if  I  stay  away,  I  know 
I  shall  forever  die." 

It  is  a  question  whether  a  faith  as  desperate  as  that 
is  faith  at  all,  but  certainly  it  is  not  the  faith  expressed 
by  these  words  out  of  our  English  version  of  the  Book 
of  Job.  "  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  Him.  '* 
There  is  something  far  more  cordial  about  these  words. 
They  are  not  desperate ;  they  anticipate  possible  disap- 
pointment and  pain;  but  they  discern  a  hope  beyond 
them.  Their  hope  lies  in  the  character  of  God.  What- 
ever His  special  treatment  of  the  soul  may  be,  the  soul 
knows  Him  in  His  character.  And  for  the  explanation 
of  His  treatment,  for  the  cordial  acceptance  of  His 
treatment  even  when  it  cannot  be  explained,  the  soul 
falls  back  upon  its  certainty  concerning  His  character. 


308  The  Perfect  Faith. 


I 


There  is  no  desperation  here.  There  is  no  mere  cling- 
ing to  God  because  the  soul,  looking  all  about,  can  find 
nothing  else  to  cling  to.  All  is  positive.  God  is  just 
what  the  soul  needs,  and  to  its  certainty  of  what  God 
is  the  soul  turns  in  every  distress  and  perplexity  about 
what  God  does.  Behind  its  perception  of  God's  con- 
duct, as  an  illumination  and  as  a  retreat,  always  lies 
its  knowledge  of  God's  character. 

The  relations  of  character  and  conduct  to  each  other 
are  always  interesting.  Let  us  look  at  them  in  general 
for  a  few  moments.  The  first  and  simplest  idea  of  their 
relation  is  that  conduct  is  the  mouth-piece  of  character. 
What  a  man  is  declares  itself  through  what  he  does. 
I  see  a  man  steal,  and  I  know  he  has  a  thievish  heart. 
I  see  a  soldier  fling  himself  upon  the  spears  of  the 
enemy,  and  I  know  that  he  is  brave  and  patriotic.  We 
know  how  closely  this  relation  between  character  and 
conduct  binds  the  two  together.  Each  is  a  poor  weak 
thing  without  the  other.  Character  without  conduct  is 
dumb  and  paralyzed.  Its  life  is  there  but  it  is  shut  out 
from  action,  and  all  man's  history  bears  witness  that  it 
is  shut  out  from  growth.  Mere  qualities  which  do  not 
become  conscious  of  themselves,  and  do  not  make  them- 
selves effective  by  contact  with  the  world  of  things,  lie 
stagnant,  and  can  hardly  be  called  live  qualities  at  all. 
And  on  the  other  hand,  conduct  without  character  is 
thin  and  most  unsatisfying.  The  pleasant  deed  which 
does  not  mean  a  kindly  heart  behind  it,  the  dashing  en- 
terprise which  is  mere  physical  excitement,  the  steadi' 
ness  in  work  which  is  merely  mechanical  habit  and 
routine,  the  search  for  learning  which  is  only  curiosity, 


The  Perfect  Faith.  309 


—  we  all  know  how  weary  and  unsatisfactory  all  of 
these  become.  No ;  conduct  is  the  trumpet  at  the  lips 
of  character.  Character  without  conduct  is  like  the  lips 
without  the  trumpet,  whose  whispers  die  upon  them- 
selves and  do  not  stir  the  world.  Conduct  without 
character  is  like  the  trumpet  hung  up  in  the  wind 
which  whistles  through  it,  and  means  nothing.  The 
world  has  a  right  to  demand  that  all  which  claims  to 
be  character  should  utter  itself  through  conduct  which 
can  be  seen  and  heard.  The  world  has  a  right  to  dis- 
allow all  claims  of  character  which  do  not  utter  them- 
selves in  conduct.  "  It  may  be  real,  —  it  may  be  good, " 
the  world  has  a  right  to  say,  "  but  I  cannot  know  it  or 
test  it ;  and  I  am  sure  that  however  good  and  real  it  is, 
it  is  deprived  of  the  condition  of  the  best  life  and 
growth  which  is  activity." 

This  is  the  first  relation  between  character  and  con- 
duct. Conduct  utters  and  declares  character;  but  we 
very  soon  find  that  this  is  not  their  only  relation.  It 
is  through  conduct  that  I  know  first  what  character  is. 
I  cannot  enter  into  the  knowledge  of  character  in  any 
other  way ;  but  when  I  have  once  entered  into  a  knowl- 
edge of  character  through  my  perception  of  conduct, 
then  something  else  occurs  which  it  is  very  interesting 
and  often  very  beautiful  to  watch.  By  and  by  I  come 
to  know  character,  to  which  conduct  has  first  intro- 
duced me,  by  itself ;  and  in  its  turn  it  becomes  the  in- 
terpreter of  other  conduct,  so  that  I,  who  first  knew 
what  a  man  was  by  what  he  did,  come  afterward  to  un- 
derstand the  things  he  does  by  the  knowledge  of  what 
he  is  to  which  I  have  attained. 


310  The  Perfect  Faith. 


Does  this  seem  obscure  ?  But  it  is  what  each  of  you 
is  doing  every  day.  Your  life  touches  another  man's 
life  in  some  of  the  many  varied  contacts  of  the  world, 
—  you  live  beside  him,  you  do  business  in  the  same 
street  and  watch  how  he  behaves,  you  see  that  he  does 
honest  deeds,  that  he  resists  temptations  to  dishonesty ; 
by  and  by  when  your  convictions  about  his  conduct 
have  become  very  clear,  after  you  have  watched  him  for 
a  long  time,  you  go  behind  his  conduct  to  his  character. 
You  say  not  merely,  "  He  does  honest  things ; "  you  say, 
"  The  man  is  honest. "  You  not  merely  know  his  acts, 
you  know  him.  That  is  a  different  kind  of  knowledge. 
He  is  more  than  the  aggregate  of  his  acts.  He  is  a  na- 
ture. To  know  a  nature  is  an  exercise  of  your  faculties 
different  from  what  it  would  be  to  know  facts.  It  in- 
volves deeper  powers  in  you,  and  is  a  completer  action 
of  your  life.  It  is  thus  that,  going  on  through  his  hon- 
est conduct  to  his  character,  you  have  come  to  know 
your  friend's  honest  self.  And  now  suppose  he  does 
some  act  which  puzzles  you.  The  world  shakes  its 
head  at  him  and  calls  his  act  dishonest.  You  yourself 
do  not  see  the  clew  by  which  to  understand  it.  But 
suppose  you  are  so  sure  that  he  is  honest  that  not  even 
the  strange  and  puzzling  circumstances  of  this  act  can 
shake  you.  You  say,  "  I  know  that  he  is  honest  and  so 
this  cannot  be  a  cheat. "  Such  a  degree  of  confidence 
is  possible;  in  many  cases  it  is  perfectly  legitimate. 
Each  of  you  has  that  degree  of  confidence  in  some  one  of 
your  fellow-men.  When  such  a  confidence  in  character 
exists,  do  you  not  see  what  a  circuit  you  have  made  ? 
You  began  with  the  observation  of  conduct  which  you 


The  Perfect  Faith.  311 


could  understand ;  through  that,  you  entered  into  knowl^ 
edge  of  personal  character ;  from  knowledge  of  charac- 
ter you  came  back  to  conduct,  and  accepted  actions  which 
you  could  not  understand.  You  have  made  this  loop, 
and  at  the  turn  of  the  loop  stands  character.  It  is 
through  character  that  you  have  passed  from  the  obser- 
vation of  conduct  which  is  perfectly  intelligible  into 
the  acceptance  of  conduct  which  you  cannot  understand, 
but  of  which  you  know  only  who  and  what  the  man  was 
that  did  it. 

All  this  is  quite  familiar.  And  we  can  see  how  ne- 
cessary some  such  progress  of  relation  to  our  fellow- 
men  must  be.  We  can  see  how  limited  our  life  would 
be  if  we  could  never  pass  through  study  of  their  actions 
into  confidence  in  the  characters  of  the  men  with  whom 
we  have  to  do.  Every  man  would  always  be  on  trial. 
We  should  always  be  testing  even  our  dearest  friends. 
Indeed,  there  could  be  no  such  thing  as  dear  friendship ; 
for  friendship  implies  communion  with  and  confidence 
in  character.  We  should  look  at  the  last  act  of  our 
companion  with  whom  we  had  kept  company  for  scores 
of  years  with  the  same  suspicious  and  watchful  scrutiny 
with  which  we  examine  the  first  things  which  a  new  ac- 
quaintance does.  Any  one  can  see  how  sterile  this  would 
make  our  whole  association  with  our  fellow-men.  The 
best  that  is  in  any  man  is  locked  away  until  you  trust 
him.  When  the  first  scrutiny  is  over ;  when  you  have 
satisfied  yourself  that  the  man  whom  you  are  dealing 
with  thinks  wisely  and  means  generously ;  when,  having 
first  made  his  actions  a  key  to  his  character,  you  have 
come  to  make  his  character  a  key  to  his  actions,  — then 


312  The  Perfect  Faith. 

you  begin  to  get  the  real  benefit  of  whatever  richness 
and  helpfulness  of  nature  there  may  be  in  him. 

The  same  is  true  about  every  one  of  the  higher  asso- 
ciations of  mankind.  It  is  true  about  the  association  of 
man  with  Nature.  Man  watches  Nature  at  first  sus- 
piciously, sees  what  she  does,  is  ready  for  any  sudden 
freak  or  whim  or  mood;  but  by  and  by  he  comes  to 
know  of  Nature's  uniformity.  He  understands  that  she 
is  self-consistent.  He  sees  what  she  means  by  all  her 
actions.  He  is  able  to  state  what  he  calls  her  laws. 
That  is  really  an  entrance  into  the  character  of  Nature. 
Man  has  come  to  know  not  merely  what  Nature  does, 
but  also  in  some  degree  what  Nature  is.  And  after  that, 
when  he  interprets  every  new  phenomenon  by  the  es- 
tablished laws,  he  is  only  doing  by  Nature  what  we  have 
already  seen  him  doing  by  his  fellow -man.  He  has 
passed  around  the  loop.  Beginning  with  observed  and 
criticised  conduct,  he  has  passed,  through  sympathy 
with  character,  into  an  acceptance  of  conduct  otherwise 
wholly  mysterious  to  him. 

Or  think  about  a  man's  relation  to  any  institution  to 
which  at  last  he  gives  the  direction  of  his  life.  A  man 
observes  the  actions  of  a  church,  and  they  so  win  his 
confidence  that  he  comes  to  believe  in  the  church's  char- 
acter as  a  depositary  of  divine  wisdom  and  of  the  spirit 
of  God.  When  he  has  once  come  to  that,  the  church 
may  offer  him  most  unreasonable  dogmas  and  bid  him 
do  most  unspiritual  things  and  he  will  not  rebel  against 
the  utterances  of  that  voice  which  is  to  him  the  very 
voice  of  God.  Everywhere  this  circuit  marks  the 
course  by  which   man    is    brought   to    unquestioning 


The  Perfect  Faith.  ~         313 

submission.  He  starts  with  the  watching  of  conduct. 
He  goes  on  into  the  perception  of  character,  and  on  the 
warrant  of  apprehended  character  he  accepts  conduct 
which  in  itself  bewilders  and  perplexes  him. 

And  now  we  want  to  carry  all  this  over  to  our  thought 
of  God,  and  see  how  it  supplies  the  key  to  that  great 
utterance  of  faith  which  is  in  our  text,  —  "  Though  He 
slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  Him."  It  is  from  God's 
treatment  of  any  man  that  that  man  learns  God.  What 
God  does  to  him,  that  is  what  first  of  all  he  knows  of 
God.  "His  creation,  preservation,  and  all  the  bless- 
ings of  this  life, "  the  tendency,  the  evident  tendency  of 
\xod's  conduct  toward  him  to  make  him  good  and  happy, 
—  that  is  the  first  revelation  which  he  meets.  That 
revelation  we  can  imagine  as  stopping  short  with  itself, 
and  becoming  the  whole  religion  of  a  man.  The  man 
might  say,  "Yes,  I  see,  the  sun  is  bright.  I  feel  the 
air  is  soft  and  gentle.  I  recognize  that  the  whole  world 
is  tempting  me  to  honesty  and  industry  and  purity. 
God  is  feeding  me,  body  and  soul,  and  I  take  His  food 
and  thank  Him  for  it. "  That  might  be  all.  The  man 
might  get  no  farther  than  just  that  bare  acceptance  of 
treatments  of  God,  each  one  of  which,  separately  taken 
up  and  criticised,  challenged  his  approval  and  made  him 
see  that  it  was  good.  And  evidently,  if  that  were  all, 
if  the  man  had  really  not  gone  beyond  that,  there  would 
be  no  ground  on  which  the  man  should,  nay  none  on 
which  he  could,  accept  any  treatment  of  God  which  ap- 
peared to  him  harsh  or  unwise.  If  the  air  roughened 
or  the  sun  grew  dim,  or  if  the  world  tempted  him  to 
evil  instead  of  enticing  him  to  good,  he,  holding  God 


314  The  Perfect  Faith. 


always  on  trial,  judging  God  anew  by  each  new  treat- 
ment he  received,  must  of  necessity  be  thrown  off  from 
God  by  each  new  disappointment.  He  could  not  help 
it.  The  moment  God's  conduct  went  against  his  judg- 
ment, he  must  disown  God. 

But  suppose  the  other  case.  Suppose  that  the  man, 
behind  and  through  the  treatment  that  God  has  given 
him,  has  seen  the  character  of  God.  God  has  been  just 
to  him.  He  has  not  rested  merely  in  the  instances  of 
God's  justice,  but  has  risen  to  the  conception  that  God 
is  just.  God  has  been  loving  to  him.  He  does  not 
merely  recount  God's  loving  acts,  but  he  sees  God, 
and  says,  "  Yes,  God  is  love. "  He  goes  up  along  the 
conduct  to  the  character.  He  goes  up  along  the  sun- 
light to  the  sun.  His  nature,  made  to  know  God's  na- 
ture, does  know  Him  with  immediate  apprehension. 
The  acts  of  God  toward  him  are,  as  it  were,  the  ushers 
which  open  the  door  and  lead  us  into  His  presence. 
When  we  are  once  there  the  ushers  may  retire.  We 
may  forget  the  special  acts  of  love  or  justice  which  first 
showed  us  what  He  was,  and  live  in  the  direct  percep- 
tion of  His  character.  If  that  is  possible,  then  evi- 
dently we  are  ready  to  see  each  new  act  which  God  does 
toward  us  with  all  the  illumination  of  His  realized  char- 
acter upon  it.  Let  us  be  certain  that  He  did  it,  and  we 
know  that  it  must  be  just  and  kind  because  He  is  love 
and  justice.  Let  me  know  that  the  water  flows  directly 
from  the  fountain,  and  it  must  be  pure  because  the  foun- 
tain, I  know,  is  purity  itself.  The  taste  of  corruption 
which  seems  to  be  in  the  water  must  really  be  in  me  who 
taste  it.     God  being  good  cannot  do  evil.     I,  standing 


The  Perfect  Faith.  315 


where  all  my  experience  has  brought  me,  clear  in  His 
presence,  know  that  He  is  good.  Therefore,  however 
cruel  His  deeds  may  seem,  they  cannot  shake  my  cer- 
tainty that  He  is  kind;  however  unreasonable  His 
deeds  may  seem,  they  cannot  shake  my  certainty  that 
He  is  wise.  Therefore,  in  the  tumult  and  distress  of 
what  seems  to  be  the  ruin  of  my  life,  I  can  still  stand 
calm  and  say,  "Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust 
Him." 

This,  then,  is  our  doctrine  of  man's  relation  to  the 
conduct  and  the  character  of  God.  Through  God's  con- 
duct man  knows  God's  character,  and  then  through 
God's  character  God's  conduct  is  interpreted.  Such  a 
doctrine  neither  sets  man  in  the  miserable  and  false 
position  of  forever  judging  God  by  his  own  poor  stand- 
ards, nor,  on  the  other  hand,  does  it  call  on  man  to 
bow  in  blindness  and  accept  as  good  the  will  of  a  God 
of  whom  he  knows  nothing  because  that  God  has  borne 
no  witness  of  Himself.  These  are  the  two  dangers  of 
all  man's  search  after  God,  —  one,  that  man  will  keep 
his  idea  of  God  forever  on  test  and  trial,  and  never  cor- 
dially accept  Him  and  enlarge  his  own  life  by  trusting 
faith  in  the  life  that  is  greater  than  his ;  the  other,  that 
man  will  make  a  God  of  his  own  imagining,  and  never 
verify  his  thought  of  Him  by  any  reference  to  the  facts 
of  human  life.  Against  both  of  these  dangers  the  doc- 
trine of  man's  trust  in  God  which  I  have  tried  to  state 
attempts  to  guard.  Man  knows  God's  character  by 
God's  conduct,  and  then  interprets  God's  conduct  by 
God's  character.  And  if  to  each  individual's  observa- 
tion of  God's  ways  you  add  the  observation  of  the  race 


316  The  Perfect  Faith. 


in  all  its  generations,  which  the  man  who  is  in  true 
sympathy  with  humanity  may  use  in  large  degree  as  if  it 
were  his  own,  it  does  appear  as  if  you  had  a  doctrine 
out  of  which  must  come  at  once  intelligence  and  rever- 
ence, —  the  culture  of  the  watchful  eye  and  of  the 
trustful  heart  together;  the  possibility  both  of  David's 
reasoning,  "I  will  praise  Him  because  He  has  dealt 
lovingly  with  me,"  and  of  Job's  faith,  "Though  He  slay 
me,  yet  will  I  trust  Him. " 

It  is  interesting  to  see  (as  we  have  already  seen  to 
some  extent)  how  this  method  of  faith  prevails  in  all  the 
relations  of  the  human  mind  to  the  objects  of  its  trust. 
There  is  a  possible  confidence  of  soul  in  soul,  won  by 
the  experience  of  the  trusted  soul's  trustiness,  which 
has  again  and  again  enabled  one  human  being  to  say  of 
another,  "Though  he  slay  me,  I  will  trust  him  still." 
Think  of  the  old  story  in  the  Book  of  Genesis.  See 
Abraham  and  Isaac  —  the  father  and  the  son  —  travel- 
ling together  from  the  land  of  the  Philistines  to  the 
mountain  of  Moriah,  which  God  had  showed  to  him. 
Behold  the  preparations  for  the  sacrifice ;  hear  the  boy's 
artless  and  pathetic  question,  "Father,  behold  the  fire 
and  the  wood !  where  is  the  lamb  ? "  Then  see  how 
gradually  the  boy  comes  first  to  suspect  and  then  to 
know  that  it  is  for  him  that  all  this  preparation  has 
been  made.  He  is  to  be  the  victim.  There  is  no  word 
even  of  remonstrance.  Isaac  has  learned  long  back  to 
trust  his  father  as  one  who  knew  the  will  of  God ;  and 
so  when  now  Abraham  looks  him  in  the  face  and  says 
to  him,  "God  wills  this,  my  son,"  the  child's  confi- 
dence bears  the  strain  and  does  not  falter.     "  Though 


The  Perfect  Faith.  817 


he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  him, "  we  can  almost  hear 
the  boy  say  as  we  see  him  submit  to  be  bound  and  to  be 
laid  upon  the  wood. 

Turn  for  another  instance  to  a  later  day  in  the  same 
Jewish  history.  Remember  how  the  "  daughter  of  the 
warrior  Gileadite  "  gave  up  her  youth  and  hope  and  life 
in  free  acceptance  of  her  father's  will.  Jephthah,  her 
father,  had  vowed  that  he  would  offer  to  the  Lord  what- 
ever first  came  out  to  meet  him  when  he  returned  victo- 
rious. We  need  not  sympathize  with  the  reckless  folly 
of  the  vow  in  order  to  feel  the  beauty  of  the  self-conse- 
cration with  which  his  child  accepted  for  herself  its 
dreadful  consequences.  The  poet  has  unfolded  the  sim- 
ple pathos  of  the  Bible  story  and  made  us  feel  the  honor 
for  him  who  by  all  his  loving  care  had  deserved  the 
trust  with  which  the  maiden  sings  from  the  land  that 
lies  beyond  the  pain  of  dying,  — 

"  My  God,  my  land,  my  father,  these  did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life  that  Nature  gave, 
Lowered  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will, 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me  e'er  I  fell 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still." 

There  is  a  faith  that  not  merely  welcomes  the  fatal 
blow  but  remains  even  after  the  blow  has  done  its  work. 
Though  He  has  slain  me,  yet  do  I  trust  Him. 

If  we  turn  from  sacred  to  classic  story,  the  same  thing 
is  there  too,  and  we  see  how  everywhere  human  nature 
loves  the  spectacle  of  such  unquestioning  faith.     The 


318  Tlie  Perfect  Faith. 


Roman  Virginius  when  his  daughter  is  threatened  with 
insult  cries  with  a  voice  full  of  woe  and  love  together, 
"  There  is  no  way  but  this, "  and  as  he  smites  her,  Vir- 
ginia falls  without  a  word  or  look  except  of  loving 
trust.  Or,  again,  we  may  recall  the  most  pathetic  of  all 
the  ancient  tragedies,  in  which  the  gentle  daughter  of 
the  Grecian  leader  gives  her  life  to  make  possible  the 
success  of  her  father's  army  on  its  way  to  Troy.  At 
first  there  is  terrible  remonstrance  and  clinging  to  this 
sweet,  earthly  life ;  Iphigenia  cries,  "  The  light  of  heaven 
is  sweetest  of  things  for  men  to  behold,  but  that  below 
is  nought;  and  mad  is  he  who  seeks  to  die.  To  live 
dishonorably  is  better  than  to  die  gloriously."  But 
soon  her  father's  terrible  conviction  takes  possession  of 
her.  Her  faith  in  him  which  he  has  won  in  all  the 
years  of  his  fatherly  kindness  does  not  desert  her  now ; 
and  at  the  last  she  is  seen  standing, —  a  figure  of  exalting 
light  and  triumph  and  beauty,  by  his  side,  waiting  to 
be  sacrificed.  "Oh,  father,  I  am  here  for  thee,  and  I 
willingly  give  my  body  on  behalf  of  my  country  and  of 
the  whole  land  of  Greece,  that  leading  it  to  the  altar  of 
the  goddess  they  may  sacrifice  it,  since  this  is  ordained. 
.  .  .  Thou  hast  nurtured  me  for  a  glory  to  Greece,  and 
I  will  not  refuse  to  die. " 

So  everywhere  the  beings  who  most  strongly  and 
justly  lay  claim  to  our  confidence  pass  by  and  by  be- 
yond the  testing  of  their  actions,  and  commend  them- 
selves to  us  and  command  our  faith  in  them  by  what  we 
know  they  are.  It  would  be  strange  and  very  dreadful 
if  this  were  not  true  of  God,  if  to  the  end  of  all  our 
intercourse  with  Him  we  always  had  to  try  each  treat- 


I 


The  Perfect  Faith.  319 


ment  which  He  sent  to  us  by  that  one  act's  evident 
reasonableness,  justice,  and  kindness.  That  were  to 
live  in  the  most  meagre  relationship  to  Him  with  whom 
our  whole  soul's  desire  that  our  relationship  should  be 
most  intimate  and  rich.  That  hateful  watch  on  God  to 
see  whether  He  would  not  fail  us  after  all,  that  suspi- 
cious guard  over  ourselves  lest  we  should  give  Him  too 
extravagantly  more  of  our  heart's  trust  than  He  had  de- 
served or  justified,  would  make  religion  odious.  There 
never  has  been  a  religion  really  deserving  of  the  name 
which  has  not  gone  beyond  that  and  in  some  way,  in 
some  degree,  trusted  the  Godhood  which  it  dimly  saw, 
because  of  what  it  dimly  knew  Him  to  be,  even  in  all  its 
inability  to  understand  His  actions. 

This  has  been  true  of  all  religions,  but  it  is  most  true 
of  Christianity.  When  Christ  came,  it  was  distinctly 
for  this  purpose,  to  make  men  know  God,  —  God  Him- 
self, God  in,  behind.  His  actions.  This  was  the  purpose 
of  the  Incarnation.  No  longer  on  difficult  and  hazard- 
ous deductions  from  His  treatment  of  them  were  men 
to  depend  alone  for  the  understanding  of  God's  nature. 
"The  Light  of  the  Knowledge  of  the  glory  of  God  in 
the  face  of  Jesus  Christ,"  says  Paul;  "He  that  hath 
seen  Me  hath  seen  the  Father,"  says  Jesus.  Still 
helped,  no  doubt,  by  what  they  saw  God  do,  but  shown 
by  Jesus  what  God  was  behind  His  doing,  what  the 
God  was  who  did  all  that  was  done  to  them,  —  so  they 
who  received  the  truth  of  Christ  were  to  attain  to  faith 
in  the  fatherliness  of  their  Heavenly  Father. 

In  the  few  moments  which  remain,  let  us  consider 
how  such  a  faith  must  shape  and  influence  our  life.     I 


320  The  Perfect  Faith. 


have  already  spoken  of  it  all  along  with  reference  to 
the  way  in  which  it  must  affect  our  thoughts  of  joy  and 
sorrow.  Have  not  your  hearts,  my  friends,  at  least 
sometimes,  caught  sight  of  a  possible  faith  in  God  by 
which  you  might  believe  in  Him,  believe  on  Him,  trust 
Him,  even  although  no  tokens  of  His  presence  or  His 
love  came  to  you  in  the  shape  of  special  pleasures,  or 
even  of  the  ordinary  joys  of  living,  —  even  although 
there  came  to  you  from  Him  what  men  who  simply  saw 
His  treatment  of  you,  and  knew  nothing  of  your  insight 
into  His  character,  thought  as  they  watched  it  must  be 
a  sure  destruction  of  your  faith  ?  To  stand  with  the 
good  things  of  life  all  stripped  away,  to  stand  beaten 
and  buffeted  by  storms  of  disaster  and  disappointment, 
to  stand  with  all  our  brethren  saying,  "Behold,  how 
God  hates  him, "  and  yet  to  know  assuredly  in  our  own 
hearts  that  God  loves  us,  to  know  it  so  assuredly,  with 
the  intercourse  that  lies  between  our  heart  and  His,  that 
we  can  freely  let  go  the  outward  tokens  of  His  love,  as 
the  most  true  and  trusty  friends  do  not  need  to  take 
gifts  from  one  another  for  assurance  of  their  affection, 
—  this  surely  is  the  perfection  of  a  faithful  life.  It  is 
the  gathering  up  of  all  happinesses  into  one  happiness 
which  is  so  rich  that  it  can  live  without  them  all,  and 
yet  regally  receives  them  into  itself  as  the  ocean 
receives  the  rivers. 

But  happiness  is  not  the  only  one,  nor  the  richest 
one,  of  the  gifts  of  God.  There  are  two  other  gifts 
which  every  true  man  values  vastly  more  than  happi- 
ness. They  are  light  and  work.  It  would  be  sad  in- 
deed  if  our  principle  did  not  apply  to  them;   but   it 


Tlie  Perfect  Faith.  321 


does !  To  stand  in  the  darkness  and  yet  know  that 
God  is  light ;  to  want  to  know  the  truth  about  a  thou- 
sand mysteries,  the  answer  to  a  thousand  problems,  and 
not  to  find  the  truth,  the  answers,  anywhere,  and  yet  to 
know  beyond  a  peradventure  that  God  is  not  hiding  from 
us  anything  which  it  is  possible  and  useful  for  us  to 
know ;  to  stand  in  the  darkness  and  yet  know  that  God 
is  light,  —  that  is  a  great  and  noble  faith,  a  faith  to 
which  no  man  can  come  who  does  not  know  God.  If  I 
know  Him,  know  how  He,  by  the  very  necessity  of  be- 
ing what  He  is,  must  value  character  in  us  more  than 
acquirement,  then  I  can  understand  how  He  can  permit 
knowledge  to  be  hidden  from  us  till  the  time  when  its 
acquirement  will  bring  the  richest  help  to  character; 
and,  knowing  that,  I  can  live  unrebelliously  in  dark- 
ness though  I  am  always  seeking  after  light,  and 
though  I  am  certain  all  the  time  that  God  is  light  and 
desires  light  for  all  His  creatures. 

And  so  too  about  work.  To  want  to  do  some  useful 
labor  in  the  world,  to  think  that  useless  life  is  only 
premature  death,  to  find  ourselves  apparently  shut  out 
from  usefulness,  and  yet  to  believe  that  God  wants  us 
to  grow  into  His  likeness  by  whom  all  the  work  of  the 
great  working  universe  proceeds,  —  that  is  indeed  a 
puzzle  to  one's  faith.  It  may  be  that  God  used  to  give 
you  plentiful  chance  of  work  for  Him.  Your  days  went 
singing  by,  each  winged  with  some  enthusiastic  duty 
for  the  Master  whom  you  loved.  Then  it  was  easy  to 
believe  that  He  was  training  you;  His  contact  with 
your  life  was  manifest;  the  use  He  made  of  you  was 
very  clear.     By  and  by  came  a  change.     He  took  all 

21 


322  'The  Perfect  Faith. 

that  away.  He  snatched  your  work  out  of  your  hands, 
or  made  your  hands  so  weak  with  sickness  that  they  let 
it  drop  themselves.  What  then  ?  Have  you  been  able 
still,  in  idleness,  in  what  seems  uselessness,  to  keep 
the  assurance  of  His  care  for  you  ?  Have  you  been  able 
still  to  be  satisfied  with  knowing  just  that  here  you 
were,  ready  to  be  used  if  He  wanted  to  use  you,  ready 
also  to  be  laid  aside  if  He  thought  best  ?  That  has  de- 
pended upon  whether  all  your  old  work  with  Him  really 
brought  you  to  know  Him.  If  it  did,  if  in  it  all,  while 
you  delighted  in  doing  it,  the  principal  blessing  of  it 
all  was  that  it  permitted  you  to  look  into  God's  soul 
and  see  how  self-complete  and  perfect  and  supreme  He 
was;  how,  after  all  His  workings,  it  was  not  in  His 
works  but  in  His  nature,  not  in  His  doing  but  in  His 
being,  that  God's  true  glory  lay ;  if  as  you  worked  with 
Him,  you  really  looked  into  His  nature  and  discerned 
all  this,  —  then  when  He  takes  your  work  away  and  bids 
you  no  longer  to  do  good  and  obedient  things  but  only 
to  be  good  and  obedient,  surely  that  is  not  the  death  of 
faith.  That  may  be  faith's  transfiguration.  You  can 
be  idle  for  Him,  if  so  He  wills,  with  the  same  joy  with 
which  you  once  labored  for  Him.  The  sick-bed  or  the 
prison  is  as  welcome  as  the  harvest-field  or  the  battle- 
field, when  once  your  soul  has  come  to  value  as  the  end 
of  life  the  privilege  of  seeking  and  of  finding  Him. 

So  out  of  all  our  thought  this  afternoon  there  comes 
one  prayer  which  sums  up  everything:  0  Lord,  by  all 
Thy  dealings  with  us,  whether  of  joy  or  pain,  of  light  or 
darkness,  let  us  be  brought  to  Thee.     Let  us  value  no 


I 


The  Perfect  Faith.  323 


treatment  of  Thy  grace  simply  because  it  makes  us 
happy  or  because  it  makes  us  sad,  because  it  gives  us 
or  denies  us  what  we  want ;  but  may  all  that  Thou  send- 
est  us  bring  us  to  Thee,  that  knowing  Thy  perfectness 
we  may  be  sure  in  every  disappointment  that  Thou  art 
still  loving  us,  and  in  every  darkness  that  Thou  art  still 
enlightening  us,  and  in  every  enforced  idleness  that 
Thou  art  still  using  us ;  yea,  in  every  death  that  Thou 
art  giving  us  life,  as  in  His  death  Thou  didst  give  life 
to  Thy  Son  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.     Amen ! 


XIX. 

THE  JOY  WITH  GOD. 

Rejoice  with  me,  for  I  have  found  my  sheep  which  was  lost, 
Luke  xv.  16. 

The  law  that  "  a  man  is  known  by  the  company  he 
keeps "  works  upward  as  well  as  downward.  We  are 
too  apt  to  give  it  mostly  a  downward  operation.  If  a 
man  seeks  the  society  of  ruffians  and  thieves,  we  are 
ready  enough  to  think  that  he  himself  is  coarse  and  dis- 
honest; but  if  a  man  tries  to  live  in  the  company  of 
good  and  reputable  people,  we  are  not  so  ready  to  be- 
lieve that  he  too  is  pure  and  trustworthy.  We  wonder 
whether  it  is  not  for  the  purpose  of  making  himself 
seem  respectable  and  shielding  himself  under  the  shadow 
of  their  goodness ;  we  wonder  whether  he  may  not  be  an 
impostor  or  a  toady.  It  is  part  of  our  suspicious  and 
despondent  disposition  to  attribute  a  strength  to  wicked- 
ness which  we  will  not  allow  to  goodness;  but  really 
goodness  is  the  stronger  power,  and  more  natures  in 
the  world  to-day  are  being  made  noble  and  pure  by 
keeping  company  with  nobleness  and  purity,  than  are 
being  made  base  by  the  contagion  of  baseness.  Think 
of  the  children  with  their  fathers  and  their  mothers, 
think  of  the  unselfish  and  exalting  friendships,  think  of 
the  'generous  ambitions  which  every  great  good  man 


The  Joy  with  God.  325 


inspires,  and,  disposed  as  you  may  be  to  think  ill  of 
human  life,  you  must  own  that  it  is  so. 

It  is  of  this  companionship  with  the  good,  with  the 
best,  that  I  am  to  preach  to  you  to-day.  The  good  shep- 
herd bringing  home  his  sheep  says,  "  Rejoice  with  me, 
for  I  have  found  it. "  We  think  about  the  shepherd  and 
about  the  sheep,  but  all  the  while,  surrounding  the  fa- 
miliar parable,  there  is  a  dim  and  shadowy  company  of 
whom  we  do  not  often  think.  They  are  the  shepherd's 
friends.  He  claims  their  friendly  sympathy;  and  so 
they  represent  to  us  the  people  everywhere  who  are 
known  to  be  good  by  their  society  with  goodness,  who 
are  both  shown  to  be  noble  and  pure,  and  also  are  made 
to  be  nobler  and  purer  by  their  power  to  rejoice  with 
the  noblest  and  purest  natures  in  their  success. 

To  "  rejoice  with"  a  fellow-man  implies  a  very  inti- 
mate association  with  him.  You  may  work  with  a 
man,  sell  goods  at  the  same  counter,  or  dig  dirt  in  the 
same  ditch,  and  that  is  mere  companionship  of  habits. 
You  may  think  with  a  man,  have  the  same  conception  of 
what  your  work  is,  and  how  it  ought  to  be  done ;  that  is 
companionship  of  mind.  But  there  comes  a  deeper  kind 
of  company  when  you  come  to  share  your  fellow-worker's 
joy,  when  you  are  glad  with  an  echo  of  his  gladness  and 
feel  enthusiasm  answering  to  his;  then  there  is  real 
companionship  of  nature.  "  Idem  velle  et  idem  nolle,  '* 
to  love  and  hate  alike,  —  that  has  always  been  the  ex- 
pression of  the  closest  union. 

For  a  man's  joy  in  what  he  has  to  do  is  the  heart  and 
soul  of  his  relation  to  it;  or  rather  it  is  the  relation  of 
his  heart  and  soul  to  it.     Faithfulness  to  one's  ^rork 


326  The  Joy  with  G@d. 

may  be  only  an  outside  bondage,  but  joy  in  it  is  a  rela- 
tionship of  heart  to  heart,  —  of  the  heart  of  the  man  to 
the  heart  of  his  task.  He,  then,  who  enters  into  a 
worker's  joy  enters  into  fellowship  with  the  worker's 
heart,  and  must  come  close  to  him. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  there  can  be  no  sign  of 
sharing  a  great  man's  greatness  like  the  power  to  re- 
joice with  him  in  the  success  of  his  great  works ;  and  it 
is  a  kind  of  partnership  with  him  which  is  open  to  any 
fellow-man  who,  however  inferior  to  him  in  powers, 
however  incapable  of  doing  the  great  thing  himself,  is 
in  such  sympathy  with  the  great  man's  fundamental  de- 
sires that  he  is  capable  of  being  glad  because  his  friend 
is  glad.  Here  is  where  little  men  and  great  men  may 
freely  come  together.  You  and  I  perhaps  know  nothing 
about  natural  science,  but  we  hear  that  some  great  scien- 
tific discovery  has  been  made,  and  instantly  we  think  how 
glad  the  man  must  be  who  made  it ;  and  in  our  rejoic- 
ing with  him  we  are  brought  at  once  into  an  association 
with  this  new  discovery  which  would  otherwise  have 
been  entirely  indifferent  to  us.  We  perhaps  know  noth- 
ing about  art,  but  we  see  the  artist's  eye  kindle  as  his 
inner  vision  of  beauty  takes  color  on  canvas,  or  takes 
shape  in  stone ;  and  being  glad  that  he  is  glad,  we  pass 
over  through  his  human  sympathy  and  have  some  part 
in  that  artistic  triumph  with  which  we  could  have 
established  no  direct  connection. 

And  even  when  the  work  is  not  the  man's  own  but 
merely  one  which  he  is  capable  of  appreciating  as  you 
are  not,  still  your  joy  in  his  joy  may  be  the  means  of 
introducing  you  to  regions  from  which  you  would  other- 


The  Joy  with  God.  327 

wise  be  entirely  excluded.  It  may  be  that  some  great 
advance  of  Christianity  is  noted,  —  perhaps  some  ad- 
vance of  Christian  thought  in  which  man's  reverent 
study  has  reached  a  little  deeper  into  the  mystery  of 
God,  perhaps  an  advance  of  Christian  activity  by  which 
the  Gospel  has  filled  some  new  darkness  of  heathenism 
with  its  light.  You  are  glad,  but  you  are  not  Christian 
enough  to  be  very  glad;  but  close  at  your  side  there 
stands  a  man  who  is  Christian  through  and  through. 
You  can  feel  his  soul  leap  and  dilate.  He  looks  round 
to  you  for  sympathy  in  his  delight,  and  you  catch  the 
kindling  of  his  eye.  Do  you  not  know  the  process  ?  At 
first  you  are  only  glad  that  he  is  glad;  but  it  cannot 
stop  there.  When  you  have  gone  as  far  as  that,  his 
gladness  takes  you  into  its  power.  Through  him  you 
pass  over  to  his  interest.  You  see  that  it  must  be  a 
great  joy  which  could  make  such  a  man  so  happy,  and 
by  and  by  you  are  glad  with  an  echo  of  his  gladness. 
You  are  triumphant  over  the  same  success  of  Christian- 
ity in  which  he  so  heartily  rejoices. 

Herein  lies  the  interpreting  power  of  great  enthusias- 
tic men.  They  bring  out  the  value  of  things  so  that 
other  men  can  see  them.  They  stand  with  their  need  of 
human  sympathy  and  look  from  the  things  which  they 
love  and  admire  to  their  fellow-men  and  cry  to  them, 
**  Rejoice  with  us ! "  and  it  is  in  the  effort  to  answer 
their  demand  for  sympathy  that  the  loveliness  and  admi- 
rableness  of  the  thing  they  praise  becomes  apparent  to  the 
eyes  of  common  men.  This  is  what  happens  when  you 
■\falk  through  a  great  picture  gallery  with  a  true  artist. 
,  At  first  you  are  surprised,  perhaps  you  are  disgusted  at 


328  The  Joy  vnth  God. 


yourself.  You  find  yourselt  praising  the  pictures  that 
he  praises  and  having  no  eyes  for  anything  which  he 
passes  by  with  indifference.  You  say,  "  I  have  no  mind 
of  my  own.  I  am  his  mere  echo.  I  do  not  really  like 
these  things,  I  am  only  trying  to  like  them  because  he 
does."  But  very  possibly  you  are  wrong.  It  is  very 
likely  that  your  artist  companion  is  revealing  to  you 
what  you  are  perfectly  capable  of  appreciating,  although 
you  are  not  capable  of  discovering  it.  The  revelation 
comes  not  through  any  formal  lecture  that  he  gives,  but 
through  the  subtler  and  finer  medium  of  sympathy  with 
his  delight.  That  it  is  real  appreciation  and  not  mere 
imitation  you  will  feel  sure  when  by  and  by  you  go  back 
alone  to  the  picture  and  find  that  still,  though  he  is  no 
longer  with  you,  the  charm  which  you  felt  in  it  through 
him  remains.  He  has  not  blinded  but  enlightened  your 
perceptions ;  and,  much  as  they  may  afterward  develop 
their  individuality  and  show  how  different  they  are  from 
his,  still  they  will  always  owe  to  him  the  debt  for  their 
first  enlightenment,  as  the  flower  comes  to  shine  in  the 
sunlight  with  a  color  that  is  all  its  own,  but  yet  would 
never  have  shone  at  all  if  the  sunlight  had  not  first 
shone  upon  it. 

I  suppose  that  almost  all  one's  patriotism  gets  more 
of  its  life  in  this  way  than  we  know.  It  is  the  great 
patriots  that  interpret  the  value  of  their  country  to  the 
common  citizen.  The  man  absorbed  in  his  own  small 
affairs,  or  so  restricted  in  his  power  of  thought  that  he 
would  never  have  taken  in  the  national  idea  for  himself 
abstractly,  sees  how  Washington  and  Webster  and  Lin- 
coln loved  the  land ;  and  through  their  love  for  it,  its 


I 


The  Joy  with  God.  329 

worthiness  of  his  own  love  becomes  made  known  to  him. 
Still  his  love  for  his  country,  when  it  is  awakened,  is  his 
own,  and  may  impel  him  to  serve  her  in  most  peculiar 
personal  ways,  very  different  from  theirs,  but  none  the 
less  it  is  true  that  but  for  the  interpretation  of  these  great 
men's  honor  for  her,  he  would  have  honored  his  country 
less  or  not  at  all. 

Can  we  not  see  how  necessary  it  is  that  all  of  us 
should  live  with  men  who  are  greater  than  ourselves, 
and  try  to  share  their  joys  ?  We  cannot  afford  to  shut 
ourselves  up  to  the  value  of  those  things  whose  value  we 
ourselves  are  able  to  discover.  Live  with  enthusiastic, 
noble  men  and  you  will  find  the  world  opening  its  in- 
spiring delights  to  you  on  every  side.  If  charity  to  you 
is  dull  and  stupid,  if  you  cannot  conceive  what  pleas- 
ure it  can  give  to  help  the  poor,  go  and  put  your  life  as 
close  as  possible  to  the  most  enthusiastic  helper  of  the 
poor  that  you  can  find.  Stand  where,  when  he  has  made 
a  poor  man's  lot  the  brighter  and  looks  round  for  some 
one  with  whom  to  share  his  pleasure,  his  kindling  eye 
shall  fall  on  you.  That  is  the  truest  way,  —  to  put  your- 
self at  least  close  to  the  gate  which  leads  to  the  delight 
in  charity,  even  though  it  be  only  close  to  it  on  the  out- 
side. When  he  turns  round  and  says  to  you,  "  Rejoice 
with  me,  for  I  have  made  an  unhappy  man  happy, "  then 
it  may  be  that  the  door  will  open  and  you  too  can  go 
in  yourself  to  the  delightful  service  of  your  fellow- 
men! 

But  now  it  is  time  to  turn  more  directly  to  our  text. 
In  the  parable  of  Jesus  it  is  the  shepherd  returning 
from  his  search  with  the  rescued  sheep  upon  his  shoul- 


330  The  Joy  with  God. 

ders  who  calls  out  to  his  friends,  "Rejoice  with  me!" 
The  Shepherd  of  the  parable  we  know  is  Christ  Himself, 
and  Christ  is  the  manifestation  of  God  in  the  world. 
In  this  familiar  picture,  then,  we  have  the  voice  of  God 
calling  on  all  His  children  to  rejoice  in  the  good  work 
which  He  is  able  to  do  for  any  one  of  His  children. 
Let  me  point  out  to  you  a  few  of  the  ideas  which  that 
picture  suggests.  Do  we  not  feel  at  once  how  this  agrees 
with  all  that  we  know  about  the  will  and  ways  of  God  ? 
Nothing  that  we  have  seen  of  Him  ever  gives  us  the 
idea  of  a  great  Lord  standing  outside  of  His  estate  and 
helping,  however  kindly,  each  one  of  His  subjects  by 
himself,  without  reference  to  the  rest.  God  uses  man 
to  save  his  fellow-man.  He  brings  in  all  the  machinery 
of  social  life  and  folds  it  around  the  special  soul  which 
He  wants  to  rescue,  and  bids  it  help,  and  delight  in 
helping,  the  unfortunate  and  lost.  This  is  the  very 
commonplace  of  our  observation  of  God's  ways.  He 
works  through  human  means,  we  say.  And  at  the  root 
of  this  disposition  to  rescue  man  by  man  —  to  work  by 
human  means  —  I  am  sure  that  there  lies  the  fact  of  a 
very  close  and  vital  and  essential  union  between  God 
and  man ;  that  old  truth  to  which  we  are  forever  coming 
back.  When  God  calls  in  the  aid  of  man  for  fellow- 
man,  or  when  God  summons  man  to  rejoice  in  fellow- 
man's  salvation,  it  is  not  a  baffled  workman  calling  for 
help  to  do  work  which  he  cannot  do  himself,  nor  is  it  a 
conqueror  commanding  the  crowd  to  shout  his  praises. 
It  is  something  wholly  different  from  either.  It  is  the 
father  of  a  family  gathering  around  himself  the  other 
children  and  telling  them  of  the  need  or  of  the  rescue  of 


The  Joy  with  God.  331 

one  child  whose  interests  are  theirs  as  well  as  his,  in 
saving  whom  they  and  he  are  really  one. 

You  have  a  friend  who  has  fallen  into  some  wretched 
vice.  As  clearly  as  if  God's  voice  spoke  to  you  out  of 
the  sky  you  hear  the  divine  summons  to  go  and  rescue 
that  poor  soul.  You  go,  and  by  and  by  that  soul  is 
brought  back  into  purity  and  honesty  again ;  and  then 
there  comes  into  your  heart  that  old  familiar  conscious- 
ness which  has  been  in  such  multitudes  of  hearts,  that 
it  is  not  really  you  but  God  who  has  saved  him.  It  is 
God  using  you.  Behind  your  power  you  feel  a  stronger 
power.  Above  your  joy  you  are  aware  of  another  joy  as 
much  more  joyous  as  the  perception  of  the  wretchedness 
of  the  vice  from  which  the  rescued  soul  has  escaped  is 
more  intense.  That  joy  and  your  joy  are  not  two  but 
one.  Your  joy  rests  upon  and  is  fed  out  of  that  joy  as 
the  sunlight  rests  upon  and  is  fed  out  of  the  sun.  Never 
are  your  soul  and  God's  soul  so  near  together  as  in  that 
common  joy;  never  are  you  more  perfectly  and  con- 
sciously his  child  than  when,  in  a  delight  which  cannot 
be  divided  and  portioned  into  shares  between  you,  but 
is  blended  and  mingled  as  one  single  emotion,  you  re- 
joice together  over  the  finding  of  the  sheep  which  was 
lost. 

Another  thought  which  is  suggested  by  the  picture  is 
the  need  of  God  for  human  sympathy.  In  many  forms 
that  idea  is  seen  floating  through  the  Bible.  It  is  not 
easy  to  grasp.  When  we  try  to  define  it  and  realize  it 
in  detail  it  often  eludes  us  and  bewilders  us,  sometimes 
it  almost  shocks  us ;  but  we  feel  its  fascination,  and  we 
know  that  there  is  truth  in  it.     God's  need  of  human 


332  The  Joy  with  God. 

sympathy!  At  first  it  seems  as  if  there  were  some 
weakening  in  our  conception  of  God  in  such  a  thought 
as  that.  That  God  should  care  what  we  poor  mortals 
think  about  His  ways,  that  it  should  make  any  differ- 
ence to  Him  whether  we  see  the  beauty  of  His  character 
and  love,  —  that  seems  to  weaken  Him.  Why  should 
He  not  go  on  His  way,  content  with  His  own  perfec- 
tion, regardless  of  what  we  or  any  other  creatures  in  His 
universe  may  think  of  what  He  does  ?  That,  we  say,  is 
our  idea  of  the  greatest  greatness.  But  is  it  ?  It  is  our 
first  idea,  no  doubt.  Our  earliest  thought  of  greatness 
is  entire  self-containment ;  but  by  and  by  that  thought 
becomes  crude  and  vulgar  in  comparison  with  another 
loftier  and  finer  thought  which  comes  up  to  take  its 
place.  By  and  by  always  the  greatest  men  are  seen  ful- 
filling their  greatness  by  an  earnest  and  loving  demand 
that  lesser  natures  should  complete  their  happiness  by 
sharing  it.  The  savior  of  his  country  wins  not  less 
but  more  respect,  does  not  detract  from  but  increase 
his  dignity,  when  a  new  lustre  kindles  in  his  eye  at  the 
sight  of  men,  women,  and  little  children  who  come 
crowding  round  him  with  shouts  of  triumph  over  the 
liberty  and  peace  which  he  has  won  for  them.  The 
same  is  true  of  God.  It  is  the  passage  from  the  low 
and  crude  into  the  loftier  and  finer  thought  of  God 
when  we  conceive  of  Him  as  caring  for  His  children's 
thought  of  Him. 

It  is  the  sign  of  how  fine  and  high  and  true  the  Bible 
thought  of  God  is  that  the  pages  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments  are  full  of  this  idea.  It  comes  to  its  com- 
pletest  utterance  in  Christ,   in  the  sublime  sensitive- 


Tlie  Joy  with  God.  333 

ness  of  the  character  of  Him  who,  while  He  never 
swerved  an  inch  out  of  His  path  to  win  a  man's  ap- 
plause or  to  escape  a  sneer,  yet  lets  us  freely  see  through 
His  transparent  story  how  the  face  grows  sad  when  the 
half-hearted  disciples  turn  their  back  on  Him  and  go 
away,  and  how  it  brightens  when  Peter  calls  Him  the 
world's  Saviour,  or  when  even  in  the  agony  of  death  a 
fellow-suiferer  cries  out  to  Him  for  mercy  and  owns 
Him  as  the  King  of  Paradise.  Surely  it  sets  some  of 
our  false  ideas  of  greatness  right,  and  lets  us  see  that 
the  truest  dignity  is  to  be  attained  not  in  separation 
from  our  brethren  but  in  closest  sympathy  with  them, 
even  in  urgent  need  of  them,  when  we  hear  Christ,  full 
of  the  manifested  power  and  mercy  of  God,  appealing  to 
men  to  rejoice  with  Him  in  the  fulfilment  of  His 
glorious  work. 

Again  the  summons  of  God  for  men  to  join  Him  in 
His  joy  appears  to  open  a  new  region  of  motive,  which, 
if  it  really  becomes  influential  with  any  of  us,  must 
become  very  strong  indeed  in  inciting  us  to  noble  work. 
Who  does  not  know  how  we  need  every  motive  which 
we  can  have  to  keep  us  faithful  to  the  good  works  which 
we  know  ought  to  be  done,  but  from  which  our  hands 
so  often  drop  discouraged  ?  The  pleasure  of  the  task 
itself ;  the  harm  and  misery  which  will  result  if  some 
one  does  not  do  it ;  the  gratitude  of  those  for  whom  it 
is  directly  undertaken ;  the  sympathy  and  honor  of  our 
fellow-men,  —  I  am  sure  that  there  are  many  of  you  who 
hear  me  who  have  often  and  often  summoned  all  of 
these  motives  and  bidden  them  inspire  your  hesitating 
will  to  do  some  half-attractive,  half-repugnant  duty  of 


334  The  Joy  with  God. 

righteousness  or  charity.  Perhaps  some  of  you  now, 
with  such  a  duty  just  before  you,  are  calling  almost 
desperately  for  these  powerful  champions  to  come  and 
strengthen  your  weakness,  lest  you  fail.  And  yet,  with 
all  the  strength  that  comes  from  them,  how  weak  you 
are !  Can  you  imagine  another  motive  which,  without 
interfering  with  or  crowding  out  any  of  these,  might 
possibly  come  in  and  multiply  their  strength  with  all 
the  intenseness  of  your  love  for  God  ?  What  if  you 
could  know  that  if  you  did  that  duty  bravely  and  faith- 
fully God  would  be  glad ;  what  if  you  could  know  that 
if  you  thought  out  your  hard  problem  honestly,  or  over- 
came your  lust  manfully,  God  would  send  down  His 
message  to  you,  "  I  am  rejoicing  with  you,  oh,  my  child ; 
come  and  rejoice  with  me  that  you  have  conquered ! " 
Would  not]  that  make  you  stronger  ?  Would  it  not  be 
as  if  at  last  the  captain  had  joined  his  hesitating  and 
imperilled  army  when  such  a  motive  as  that  came  in, 
shining  and  confident,  among  the  half-dismayed  and 
frightened  motives  which  had  been  trying  to  rally  and 
lead  on  your  life. 

But  a  man  may  be  sure  of  that,  a  man  must  be  sure 
of  that,  if  he  is  genuinely  certain  that  there  is  a  God  at 
all.  From  the  shop-boy  tempted  to  steal,  up  to  the 
leader  of  some  goodly  cause  tempted  to  lower  his  stand- 
ard in  discouragement,  there  is  no  human  being  set  to 
do  duty  who  may  not,  if  he  will,  throw  behind  his  own 
weakness  this  great  strength.  "  If  I  can  only  persevere, 
if  I  only  can  be  faithful,  I  may  rejoice  with  God !  If  I 
fail  and  give  up,  the  door  closes  upon  that  inmost  cham- 
ber of  the  soul's  company  with  God  in  which  it  shares 


The  Joy  with  God.  335 

His  joy. "  There  are  souls  as  incapable  of  feeling  the 
power  of  that  motive  as  a  deaf  man  is  of  responding  to 
the  trumpet ;  but  to  any  soul  which  can  feel  it  and  an- 
swer to  it  there  comes  strength  which  almost  insures 
success. 

All  these  are  ways  in  which  it  helps  a  man  when  he 
hears  God  calling  upon  him  to  rejoice  with  Him  in  His 
salvation  of  the  world.  But  I  think  on  the  whole  that 
there  is  no  help  coming  to  us  out  of  such  a  summons 
which  helps  us  more  than  that  which  corresponds  to  the 
enlightenment  that  I  tried  to  describe  at  the  beginning 
of  my  sermon  as  coming  from  man  to  man  when  such  an 
invitation  passes  from  one  to  the  other.  When  God  bids 
us  rejoice  with  Him  in  the  salvation  of  a  soul,  it  is  a 
revelation  to  us  of  what  a  precious  thing  a  soul  must  be. 
I  pictured  the  artist  going  through  a  gallery  and  bidding 
you  rejoice  with  him  in  some  great  picture,  and  I  bade 
you  remember  how  in  the  light  of  his  summons  you 
saw  the  picture's  greatness.  I  pictured  the  patriot 
interpreting  the  value  of  their  country  to  the  great  host 
of  his  duller  fellow-citizens.  Now  think  what  an  il- 
lumination must  come  to  a  man  who  is  working  slug- 
gishly for  some  good  cause  when  the  fact  of  God's  love 
for  what  he  works  for  gets  into  his  heart.  You  are 
working  along  in  our  sluggish  missionary  way,  doing 
with  weary  punctiliousness  your  yearly  task  for  the  con- 
version of  the  world,  contributing  when  Epiphany  comes 
round  a  little  piece  of  money  of  such  a  size  that  if  every 
man  in  the  church  contributed  as  much  once  every  year 
the  Gospel  would  be  preached  to  all  the  world  in  about  a 
hundred  thousand  years.     As  you  are  lounging  so  over 


336  Tlie  Joy  with  God. 

your  task,  you  hear  of  some  heathen  tribe  which  has  cast 
away  its  idols  and  accepted  Christ.  You  know  what  that 
means  for  them.  You  know  it  means  a  new,  clean  life, 
family  purity,  education,  liberty,  the  lifting  of  all  life 
into  self-respect,  and  the  quickening  of  the  vision  and 
the  hope  of  souls  which  used  to  lie  in  darkness  and  the 
shadow  of  death.  You  read  the  news,  and  you  think  it 
is  a  good  thing,  and  then  you  are  just  about  to  turn  back 
to  your  business  when  out  of  heaven  there  comes  down  a 
voice  to  you,  crying,  "  Rejoice  with  me !  Rejoice  with 
me ! "  It  is  the  voice  of  God !  The  God  of  the  spirits 
of  all  flesh.  Behold !  to  Him  this  bit  of  tidings  from 
the  southern  seas  seems  to  be  full  of  glory.  Can  you 
hear  His  summons  and  not  see  anew  how  glorious  the 
tidings  are  ? 

Some  friend  here  by  your  side  attains  to  a  new  life, 
casts  off  the  sloth  or  vice  which  has  been  crushing 
him  into  a  brute  and  begins  to  live  for  God.  He 
begins  to  know  his  own  soul.  He  grows  ashamed  of 
sin.  He  sees  visions  of  purity  and  spiritual  growth  be- 
fore him  which  make  time  and  eternity  glow  with  hope. 
He  sets  himself  down  to  the  long,  hard,  patient,  glow- 
ing struggle  of  duty.  He  takes  his  stand  on  Christ's 
side.  He  breaks  his  old  comradeship  and  calls  all 
good  men  his  brethren ;  and  you,  a  good  man,  a  Chris- 
tian man,  say,  "  I  am  glad  of  it.  My  friend  always  was 
kindly  and  honest,  now  he  is  all  right.  He  has  joined 
the  church.  He  is  where  he  ought  to  be. "  And  then, 
perhaps,  you  set  yourself  to  wondering  what  sort  of  a 
church  it  is  that  he  has  joined,  and  noticing  whether 
he  bows  in  the  creed  or  not,  and  asking  whether  he  is 


The  Joy  with  God,  337 

going  to  be  a  high  churchman  or  a  low  churchman! 
And  just  then  comes  the  song  of  the  Shepherd,  bringing 
home  His  treasure,  "  Rejoice  with  Me,  for  I  have  found 
My  sheep  which  was  lost."  That  is  what  this  man's 
conversion  means  for  Jesus  Christ.  It  is  a  lost  soul 
rescued  into  the  family  of  God,  and  the  heart  of  the 
family  is  richer  for  the  return  of  this  lost  fragment. 
Is  there  no  revelation  there  for  you  which  makes  the 
whole  transaction  seem  a  different  thing  ?  Is  not  your 
brother's  soul  more  precious  when  you  see  how  Christ 
cares  for  it  ?  Do  you  not  want  to  help  your  Lord  in  the 
completion  of  that  soul's  salvation,  even  as  the  under- 
shepherds  might  have  run  to  meet  the  rescuer  whose 
voice  they  heard,  and  taken  his  burden  off  his  shoul- 
ders, and  tended  the  rescued  sheep,  and  fed  it  until  it 
was  strong  again,  —  as  they  might  have  done  all  this 
when  they  read  the  value  of  the  sheep  in  what  their 
Lord  was  ready  to  do  to  save  it  ? 

You  hear  of  the  partial  success  of  some  good  cause. 
You  know  the  cause  is  good,  but  men  despise  it ;  they 
call  it  fanatical,  quixotic,  or  something  else  as  foolish. 
Some  day  it  wins  a  success,  and  you  are  glad,  but  you 
keep  your  gladness  to  yourself.  You  hear  men  in  the 
streets  sneering  at  this  unpopular  thing  which  is  pre- 
sumptuously daring  to  be  successful  without  their  sup- 
port, and  you  are  slavish  and  cowardly  and  hold  your 
peace.  What  a  rebuke  and  what  a  freedom  comes  when 
out  of  heaven  you  hear  the  voice  of  Christ  triumphant 
ever  this,  over  which  the  streets  and  the  clubs  are  so 
contemptuous,  and  calling  to  you,  "Rejoice  with  me, 
for  another  of  my  good  causes  has  succeeded. "     This  is 


338  The  Joy  with  God. 

the  way  in  which  causes  often  get  possession  of  the 
world.  The  men  who  are  most  in  sj^mpathy  with  God 
become  aware  that  God  rejoices  in  the  cause's  success; 
so  they  have  its  desert  interpreted  to  them  till  they  too 
desire  it  earnestly;  and  then  in  their  turn  they  in- 
terpret to  their  fellow-men  what  God  has  first  inter- 
preted to  them,  till  ultimately  the  fire  which  starts 
from  the  central  heart  of  all  runs  through  the  world, 
and  the  blindest  are  enlightened  to  discern,  and  the 
most  timid  become  bold  enough  to  praise,  the  move- 
ment which  at  first  had  no  friend  but  God. 

I  know  that  when  I  speak  thus  I  am  drawing  out  into 
distinct  definition  what,  as  it  works  in  the  human  soul, 
is  only  vaguely  realized.  It  is  not  analyzed  as  I  have 
tried  to  analyze  it.  It  lies  in  the  memory  as  a  half- 
conscious  experience.  But  yet  I  think  that  as  I  close  I 
may  appeal  to  your  experiences  and  ask  you  to  bear 
witness  to  what  I  have  been  saying.  If  ever,  as  you 
worked  conscientiously  but  feebly  at  some  good  work, 
you  have  been  conscious,  however  dimly,  that  you  were 
not  working  alone  but  that  your  work  was  dear  in  some 
way  to  the  Heart  on  which  all  our  life  rests ;  if  ever, 
trying  to  help  your  brethren,  you  have  known  as  a  richer 
motive  than  your  love  for  them  the  love  of  God  to  whom 
their  souls  were  dear ;  if  ever  duty,  struck  for  an  instant 
by  the  certainty  that  it  was  God's  wish,  has  blazed  into 
sudden  beauty  as  a  diamond  blazes  when  it  is  smitten 
by  the  sun,  —  in  any  of  those  experiences  you  have 
known  what  it  was  to  hear  God  call  to  you,  "Come, 
rejoice  with  Me! " 

It  must  be  a  noble,  happy  life  which  lives  in  such 


The  Joy  with  God,  339 


experiences  all  the  time.  It  must  be  a  life  calm,  ex- 
alted, active,  independent ;  and  yet  see  how  simple  are 
the  conditions  of  such  a  life !  It  is  simply  a  life  whose 
ears  are  open,  through  constant  sympathy  with  God,  to 
hear  what  God  loves  and  desires,  and  whose  heart  has  so 
accepted  Him  as  its  Master  that  His  desires  become  its 
desires  through  its  admiring  love.  They  are  sublime 
conditions,  but  they  are  wonderfully  simple.  They  are 
the  conditions  which  any  soul  must  reach  which  has 
been  really  brought  back  out  of  its  sins  and  forgiven  and 
reconciled  to  God  by  Jesus  Christ.  Into  that  life,  by 
what  way  He  chooses,  may  He  bring  us  all ! 


XX. 

THE  ILLUMINATIOISr  OF  OBEDIENCE. 

Whatsoever  He  saith  unto  you,  do  it.  —  John  ii.  5. 

Through  the  mists  of  long  and  devout  tradition  which 
have  obscured  her  character  and  made  her  very  person 
almost  mythical  we  are  surprised  sometimes  in  reading 
the  Gospels  at  the  clearness  and  simplicity  with  which 
Mary  the  mother  of  our  Lord  stands  out  before  us  there. 
She  speaks  only  on  three  occasions,  but  when  she  speaks 
her  words  have  such  a  directness  and  transparency 
about  them,  they  come  so  short  and  true,  they  are  so 
perfectly  the  words  that  an  earnest  and  unselfish  woman 
would  have  spoken  that  they  leave  us  the  clearest  and 
most  satisfactory  idea  of  what  manner  of  woman  she 
must  have  been.  Those  three  utterances  of  hers  are 
like  three  clear  notes  of  a  bell,  that  show  how  sound 
and  rich  its  metal  is.  Think  what  they  were.  In  the 
presence  of  the  messenger  who  comes  to  tell  her  of  her 
great  privilege  she  bows  her  head  and  says,  "  Behold  the 
handmaid  of  the  Lord.  Be  it  unto  me  according  to  thy 
word. "  When  she  finds  her  son  in  the  temple  she  cries 
out  to  Him,  "  Son,  why  hast  Thou  thus  dealt  with  us  ? 
Thy  father  and  I  have  sought  Thee  sorrowing. "  "When 
she  stands  with  Him  before  the  puzzled  guests  at  Cana 
she  turns  to  the  servants  and  says,  "Whatsoever  He 


The  Illumination  of  Obedience.  341 

saith  unto  you,  do  it."  The  young  soul's  consecration! 
The  mother's  overrunning  love !  The  disciple's  perfect 
loyalty !  What  can  be  clearer  than  the  simple,  true, 
brave,  loving  woman  that  those  words  reveal  ?  How 
all  the  poor  tawdry  mythology  which  has  clustered 
about  her,  and  called  her  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  disap- 
pears before  the  vastly  deeper  beauty  of  this  true  woman 
of  the  earth,  who  wins  our  confidence  and  love. 

I  want  to  speak  to-day  of  the  last  of  those  three  words, 
and  some  of  its  suggestions.  You  remember  the  circum- 
stances, but  let  me  repeat  them  once  more  in  the  words 
of  the  ever-fresh  and  beautiful  old  story.  "And  the 
third  day  there  was  a  marriage  in  Cana  of  Galilee,  and 
the  mother  of  Jesus  was  there.  And  both  Jesus  was 
called  and  His  disciples  to  the  marriage.  And  when 
they  wanted  wine  the  mother  of  Jesus  saith  unto  Him, 
They  have  no  wine.  Jesus  saith  unto  her.  Woman 
what  have  I  to  do  with  thee,  my  hour  is  not  come. 
His  mother  saith  unto  the  servants,  Whatsoever  He 
saith  unto  you,  do  it."  It  is  a  moment  of  bewilder- 
ment. The  impatient  guests  are  asking  for  what  the 
host  has  not  to  give  them.  The  mother  of  Jesus  turns 
to  Him,  but  He  seems  to  put  her  suggestion  back. 
There  is  an  air  of  embarrassment  about  it  all.  She  and 
the  guests  are  puzzled,  and  then  she  says  to  them,  as 
if  that  were  the  only  outlet  and  escape  from  their  per- 
plexity, "Do  what  He  bids  you  do."  It  is  as  if  she 
said,  "I  do  not  understand  Him,  I  do  not  know  what 
He  means  or  why  He  speaks  as  yon  have  heard  Him 
speak,  but  the  oily  way  for  Him  to  interpret  Himself  is 
to  say  what  He  wants  done,  and  you  and  1  in  doing  it 


342  The  Illwinination  of  Obedience. 

will  see  exactly  what  He  means.  Therefore,  whatever 
He  saith  unto  you,  do  it. "  We  ask  ourselves  at  once, 
where  had  she  learned  this  of  her  son  ?  And  we  re- 
member that  since  the  last  glimpse  the  Gospel  gave  us 
of  them,  they  have  been  quietly  living  together,  mother 
and  son,  at  Nazareth.  There  she  had  studied  Him 
with  a  love  that  must  have  been  more  and  more  filled 
with  reverence.  There  she  had  realized  the  mystery  of 
His  nature.  And  one  of  the  things  which  her  experi- 
ence of  Him  had  taught  her  must  have  been  just  this : 
that  often  there  were  meanings  and  ideas  which  He  in- 
tended to  convey  which  could  not  be  set  forth  in  words, 
but  which  must  be  displayed  in  action,  —  in  the  com- 
pletely sympathetic  action  of  two  beings  working  to- 
gether with  a  common  will.  Can  we  not  picture  many 
a  time  in  the  intercourse  of  their  quiet  home  in  which 
this  must  have  come  to  her,  ■; —  times  when  some  deep 
mysterious  word  fell  from  His  lips  which  awed  and 
fascinated  her,  perhaps,  but  of  which  she  could  make  no 
clear  meaning,  and  when,  as  she  watched  His  actions  and 
helped  them,  doing  all  that  He  wanted  her  to  do,  there 
gradually  came  out  from  His  action  the  meaning  which 
was  in  His  words,  but  which  they  could  not  perfectly 
express  ?  I  think  their  life  together  must  have  been 
full  of  such  experiences.  There  is  something  like  it  in 
the  relation  that  all  thoughtful  and  watchful  parents 
hold  to  their  little  children.  How  often  you  have 
watched  their  actions  and  quietly  helped  them  out,  and 
learned  from  them  what  they  were  wholly  powerless  to 
put  in  words !  There  are  always  some  childlike  people 
of  whom  we  feel  that  the  only  true  expression  must  be 


I 


The  Illumination  of  Obedience.  343 


in  the  working  out  of  their  activity.  They  cannot  toll 
their  meaning  except  in  deeds.  We  feel  something  of 
the  same  kind  in  our  intercourse  with  Nature.  We  try 
to  catch  her  messages,  to  put  ourselves  into  sympathy 
with  the  vague  spirit  which  breathes  through  all  her  life ; 
but  at  the  last  we  learn  that  it  is  only  by  obedience, 
only  by  helping  her  works  to  their  completest  by  our 
service  and  by  attentive  study  of  the  things  she  does, 
that  we  come  really  to  know  this  mysterious  life  of 
Nature  on  whose  bosom  we  are  living.  Whatsoever  she 
saith  unto  you,  do  it.  Obey  Nature  and  she  will  reveal 
herself  to  your  obedience,  —  is  not  that  the  real  watch- 
word of  our  modern  science  ? 

And  like  that,  only  more  deep  and  holy,  was  the  law 
which  the  mother  of  Jesus  had  learned  in  the  treatment 
of  her  Son.  That  only  by  doing  His  will,  even  when 
it  was  darkest,  could  she  truly  come  to  the  light  which 
she  knew  was  in  Him. 

It  sounds  perhaps  at  first  as  if  the  words  of  Mary  were 
a  mere  utterance  of  despair ;  as  if  she  said,  "  I  cannot 
make  Him  out.  He  is  far  away  above  us.  It  is  not 
for  us  to  try  to  make  Him  out.  Such  as  we  are  cannot 
understand  such  as  He  is.  All  we  can  do  is  just  to 
take  His  commandments  in  the  dark,  and  do  them  in  the 
dark,  and  be  content. "  But  if  what  I  have  just  said  is 
true,  the  tone  of  the  words  is  not  despair  but  hope.  She 
does  not  say,  "  We  cannot  know  Him ; "  she  only  says, 
"  He  must  take  His  own  way  to  make  us  know  Him,  to 
make  Himself  known  to  us.  We  cannot  understand  His 
words.  Let  us  see  what  He  does.  Let  us  put  ourselves 
into  His  action  by  obedience,  and  we  shall  understand 


344  The  Illumination  of  Obedience. 


Him. "  Surely  she  struck  there  the  note  ot  all  the  best 
Christian  experience  that  has  come  since,  through  all 
the  ages.  How  familiar  has  become  the  grand  and  sim- 
ple way  in  which  the  soul  which  has  been  puzzled  with 
the  words  of  Jesus  may  stand  still  and  say,  • "  Lord,  re- 
veal Thyself  to  me  in  dealing  with  me.  I  will  not 
hinder  Thee.  I  will  obey  Thee.  Whatsoever  Thou  say- 
est  unto  me  I  will  do  it,  and  so  I  shall  reach  the  true 
knowledge  of  Thee  which  my  soul  craves. "  A  man  has 
studied  Christ  in  all  the  books.  He  has  sat  still  and 
meditated,  and  tried  to  see  through  His  meditation 
into  the  very  face  of  Christ  whom  he  has  longed  to 
understand;  and  he  has  not  succeeded.  Christ  has 
seemed  to  elude  him.  He  would  not  show  Himself. 
He  has  almost  seemed  to  lay  His  hand  upon  the  eyes  of 
the  inquiring  man  as  if  He  said,  "  What  have  I  to  do  ? 
Mine  hour  is  not  yet  come. "  But  then  the  man  looks 
up  and  sees  a  duty,  —  a  very  hard  one  it  may  be,  —  or 
sees  a  burden  which  is  very  heavy.  It  is  evidently 
coming  toward  him.  He  cannot  escape  it.  Suppose 
that  he  is  lifted  up  to  such  a  knowledge  of  it  all  that  he 
is  ready  with  all  his  heart  to  say, "  I  do  not  want  to  es- 
cape it.  If  God  sends  it,  God  is  in  it.  God  sends  noth- 
ing, God  brings  everything.  Whatever  comes  from 
God  has  the  God  whom  it  comes  from  in  its  heart. 
This,  then,  is  He  that  is  coming  to  me.  What  He 
could  not  tell  me  in  words  about  Himself,  I  shall  learn 
in  this  touch  —  what  men  call  this  blow  —  of  His  hand 
which  I  see  approaching, "  Oh,  it  is  possible  so  to  look 
forward  to  a  great,  an  awful  experience,  with  something 
that  is  truly  triumph  filling  all  the  pain  and  drowning 


Ths  Illumination  of  Obedience.  345 

all  the  dread,  so  to  look  to  disaster,  to  sickness,  to  be- 
reavement, to  death,  saying,  "Now  I  shall  know!  In 
submissive  acceptance  of  God's  will  I  shall  understand 
that  which  no  study  of  His  words  could  teach  me. " 

But  yet  our  verse  does  not  allow  us  to  forget  that  all 
true  waiting  for  Christ's  self-revelation  is  of  an  active 
and  not  merely  of  a  passive  sort.  "Whatsoever  He 
saith  unto  you,  do  it, "  says  Mary.  There  is  something 
to  be  done  in  order  that  Jesus  may  show  out  completely 
what  He  is  trying  to  make  manifest.  And  here,  I 
think,  is  where  a  human  action  mounts  to  its  highest 
dignity,  and  puts  on  its  fullest  meaning.  There  are 
two  views  of  human  actions.  One  looks  on  them  as 
they  are  in  themselves,  seeing  only  the  force  and 
friction  which  is  involved  in  the  specific  thing  that  is 
done,  and  in  the  will  of  the  immediate  doer ;  the  other 
regards  them  as  setting  free  for  expression  and  effect 
some  higher  force  and  purpose,  — the  force  and  purpose 
of  God  which  are  waiting  behind.  One  is  the  purely 
human,  the  other  is  the  divine  view  of  human  action. 
It  is  as  when  you  turn  a  screw  in  some  great  engine. 
A  child  who  sees  it  turned  thinks  only  of  the  hand 
which  he  sees  turning  it,  and  sees  only  the  twisting  of 
that  bit  of  brass ;  but  to  the  man  who  knows  the  engine 
the  turning  of  that  screw  is  the  setting  free  of  the  im- 
prisoned steam  to  do  its  work.  And  so  with  human 
actions.  Take  any  one.  You  engage  to-morrow,  it 
may  be,  in  a  new  business,  take  a  new  partner,  and  be- 
gin to  sell  new  goods  in  a  new  store.  To  one  man  that 
may  mean  the  setting  forth  by  your  own  will  in  search 
of  fortune,  —  nothing  more  than  that ;  to  another  man 


346  The  Illumination  of  Obedience. 

it  may  mean  what  we  can  reverently  call  the  opening  up 
to  God  of  chances  to  show  Himself,  and  work  effects 
which  have  been  seemingly  impossible  before.  New 
combinations,  new  contacts,  will  result  out  of  that  act 
of  yours,  new  needs  of  divine  illumination,  of  divine 
guidance  are  sure  to  come ;  and  if  man's  need  is  indeed 
God's  opportunity,  then  this  new  enterprise  of  yours 
will  surely  open  some  new  chink  through  which  the 
everlasting  light  can  shine,  or  build  some  wall  against 
which  the  everlasting  and  all-loving  voice  can  echo. 
And  so  it  is  with  everything  you  do.  You  make  a 
friend,  you  read  a  book,  you  take  a  journey,  you  buy  a 
house,  you  write  a  letter,  and  so  full  is  the  great 
world  of  God,  so  is  He  waiting  everywhere  to  make 
Himself  known  and  to  give  Himself  away,  that  through 
this  act  of  yours,  to  men  who  are  looking  and  listening, 
there  comes  some  revelation  of  His  nature  and  some 
working  of  His  power.  Acts  become  little  or  great  only 
according  to  the  degree  in  which  God  manifests  Himself 
and  works  through  them.  To  call  acts  insignificant  or 
important  in  themselves  is  as  if  a  child  looked  into  an 
engine-room  and  judged  of  the  importance  of  different 
parts  of  the  machinery  by  the  size  of  the  handles  that 
moved  them.  The  slightest  handle  may  set  free  the 
great  power  of  the  steam.  To  one  who  listens  wisely, 
the  click  of  a  delicate  needle  may  sound  as  awful  as  the 
thunder  of  the  walking-beam.  For  acts  have  their  true 
meanings  in  the  points  of  manifestation  and  operation 
which  they  give  to  God.  It  was  not  because  she  knew 
that  somehow  they  would  have  wine  or  something 
better,  it  was  because  her  Son  would  surely  show  Him- 


The  Illumination  of  Obedience.  347 

self  through  their  obedience,  if  they  obeyed  Him,  that 
Mary  cared  what  these  servants  did.  It  is  strange  to 
think  what  a  dignity  and  interest  our  own  actions 
might  have  for  us  if  we  constantly  recognized  this  ca- 
pacity in  them  which  they  have  not  now.  We  play  r,. 
with  bits  of  glass,  finding  great  pleasure  in  their  pleas- 
ant  shapes,  but  never  knowing  what  glorious  things  they 
would  be  if  we  held  them  up  and  let  the  sun  shine 
through  them. 

It  is  necessary  for  us  to  recognize  that  this  quality  in 
Jesus  which  made  it  impossible  that  He  should  per-, 
fectly  reveal  Himself  except  in  His  action  on  and 
through  obedient  men,  is  not  something  peculiar 
to  Him.  It  belongs  to  the  very  substance  of  the  hu- 
man nature  which  He  had  assumed.  The  first  princi- 
ple of  all  influence  is,  that  there  is  something  in  every 
nature  which  cannot  be  communicated  by  mere  contact 
of  intelligences.  It  must  pass  over,  it  can  only  pass 
over,  from  man  to  man  through  a  sympathy  of  wills; 
and  such  a  sympathy  can  exist  between  an  inferior  and 
a  superior,  between  a  less  and  a  greater,  only  where  there 
is  loving  obedience  on  one  side  and  loving  authority  on 
the  other.  All  the  communications  of  men  with  one 
another  lie  as  it  were  in  two  strata,  — two  stories 
with  a  floor  between  them ;  one  story  is  deeper  than  the 
other.  In  the  upper,  superficial  story  men  tell  each 
other  what  they  know.  All  schools,  all  books,  belong 
in  this  superficial  region  of  companionship.  In  the 
deeper  story  men  give  each  other  what  they  are.  All 
obedience  of  will  to  will,  all  trust  of  life  in  life,  belongs 
in  this  profounder  region.     Do  you  not  know  the  differ- 


348  The  IlluiiLination  of  Obedience. 

ence  ?  You  go  to  a  man's  school,  or  read  his  book,  and 
there  are  great  and  precious  things  that  pass  from  him 
to  you.  The  facts  which  he  has  gathered  in  his  industri- 
ous study,  the  ideas  that  have  come  forth  like  stars  out 
of  the  darkness  in  his  conscientious  thought,  — these  he 
can  give  you  and  he  does,  and  you  are  richer  for  them. 
He  has  only  to  teach ;  you  have  only  to  attend  and  un- 
derstand. But  by  and  by  you  come  to  know  the  man, 
to  love  him,  to  count  his  will  a  better  expression  of  the 
will  of  God  than  your  will.  You  obey  him.  Then  at 
once  is  there  not  a  new  kind  of  communication  be- 
tween your  life  and  his  ?  Does  he  not  give  you  things 
that  he  could  not  give  before,  —  not  only  facts  and 
ideas,  but  motives,  hopes,  fears,  loves,  dreads,  inspi- 
rations ?  You  have  passed  from  the  upper  to  the  deeper 
story  of  companionship,  and  the  passage  took  place 
when  you  passed  beyond  listening  and  learning  and  be- 
gan to  love  and  to  obey.  We  all  have  benefactors  with 
whom  we  live  in  one  chamber  or  in  the  other,  whom 
we  meet  in  the  upper  or  the  lower  regions  of  communi- 
cation. Our  teachers  we  meet  in  the  room  of  instruc- 
tion; our  masters,  our  saviors,  we  meet  in  the  deeper 
room  of  influence  and  inspiration.  The  question  of  ques- 
tions, as  concerns  our  Christian  faith,  is  in  which  room 
we  meet  Christ.  We  certainly  meet  Him  in  the  upper 
room  where,  as  we  listen.  He  tells  us  things  we  never 
could  have  known  without  Him.  Does  He  meet  us  also 
in  the  deeper  chamber  where  as  we  obey  He  reveals  to  us 
the  very  secret  of  His  being  and  makes  us  like  Himself  ? 
There  can  be  no  doubt  in  which  room  He  wants  to 
meet  ua.     The  very  fact  that  His  coming  was  an  Incar 


The  Illumination  of  Obedience.  349 

nation  is  a  witness  of  how  thoroughly  He  wanted  to  give 
Himself  to  us.  And  nothing  is  finer  in  the  history  of 
His  disciples  in  the  Gospels  than  to  see  how  He  led  them 
down  from  the  surface  to  the  depths,  —  from  the  upper 
region  in  which  they  followed  Him  saying,  "Master 
where  dwellest  Thou  ?  "  and  He  answered,  "  Come  and 
see, "  to  the  profound  revelation  in  which  the  prostrate 
disciple  cried,  "  Who  art  Thou  Lord  ?  "  and  the  answer 
came  to  him  from  the  sky,  "  Arise  and  go  into  the  city, 
and  it  shall  be  told  thee  what  thou  shalt  do. "  The  first 
is  enlightenment  through  attention;  the  second  is  re- 
generation through  obedience.  In  the  first,  knowledge 
is  given  through  intelligence;  in  the  second,  life  is 
given  through  the  utterly  submissive  will.  This  was 
the  essential  difference  between  the  teaching  of  Jesus 
and  the  teaching  of  the  scribes  which"  the  simple- 
hearted  people  on  the  mountain  felt  so  truly.  This  was 
the  great  transfer  and  deepening  of  the  learning  life  to 
which  the  Lord  invited  His  disciples  when  He  said, 
"If  any  man  will  do  My  will,  he  shall  know  of  the 
doctrine. " 

But  then  perhaps  another  question  comes.  "  Intelli- 
gence comes  by  obedience  you  say.  I  shall  hear  what 
Christ  has  to  say  to  me  if  I  obey  Him ;  but  can  I  obey 
Him  till  I  first  know  what  He  has  to  say  ?  Have  I  a 
right  to  make  myself  the  servant  of  any  one  till  I  know 
what  it  is  that  he  will  bid  me  do  ?  "  Or,  to  take  the 
simple  picture  of  our  story,  had  the  mother  of  Jesus  a 
right  to  bid  any  man  do  whatever  Iicr  Son  should  say  ? 
Had  she  the  right  to  bid  them  obey  one  whom  she  did 
not  understand  ?     Must  she  not  wait  till  she  sees  what 


350  The  Illumination  of  Obedience. 

His  commandments  are  before  she  can  call  on  them  for 
such  unquestioning  obedience  ?  The  answer  lies  in  the 
essential  difference  between  faith  and  sight,  those  two 
acts  of  which  men  have  so  long  talked  so  much,  and  of 
which  it  has  sometimes  seemed  as  if  they  understood  so 
little.  But  how  simple  they  are !  Faith  is  the  knowl- 
edge of  a  person;  sight  is  the  perception  of  a  thing. 
To  believe  anything  on  faith  is  to  believe  it  because  the 
person  who  tells  it  to  me  I  am  sure  is  trustworthy.  To 
believe  anything  on  sight  is  to  believe  it  because  I  my- 
self perceive  that  it  is  true.  I  believe  the  sun  is  warm 
because  it  pours  its  gracious  heat  down  upon  my  open 
hand.  I  believe  that  man,  the  child  of  God,  is  not  born 
to  die  because  God  Himself,  God  manifest  in  Christ,  has 
told  me  so.  They  are  not  different  degrees  of  certainty, 
they  are  different  kinds  of  certainty,  —  different  grounds 
on  which  certainty  may  rest.  And  just  as  it  evidently 
needs  a  different  kind  of  a  man  to  trust  a  personal  na- 
ture and  to  examine  the  structure  of  a  thing,  so  there 
will  always  be  a  certain  broad  difference  between  the 
men  of  faith  and  the  men  of  sight.  There  is  not  the 
slightest  antagonism  between  them,  but  the  ideas  are 
always  distinct,  always  distinguishable. 

And  now  with  this  distinction  clear  in  our  minds,  see 
what  a  perfect  right  one  has  —  one  who  knows  Christ  by 
any  true  experience  of  His  character  as  Mary  knew  Him 
—  to  bid  other  men  obey  Him  even  although  they  do  not 
know  what  commandments  He  will  give.  You  are  a 
Christian,  let  us  say.  You  have  known  this  Lord  of 
ours  for  many  years.  You  have  learned  from  many 
an  experience  to  trust   Him   absolutely.     Well,  some 


TJie  Illumination  of  Obedience.  351 

day  I  come  to  you  with  a  poor  handful  of  confused  ideas 
about  Him,  with  a  poor  heartful  of  broken  hopes,  faded 
enthusiasms,  disappointed  expectations.  "  See,  I  am 
all  lost,  I  can  make  nothing  of  life!"  I  cry  to  you; 
"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  And  you  just  turn  to  me  and 
point  to  Christ,  and  say,  "Obey  Him,  follow  Him. 
Whatsoever  He  saith  unto  you,  do  it. "  It  is  an  aston- 
ishing answer.  I  am  not  ready  for  it.  I  turn  on  you 
and  say,  "  Follow  Him !  Why  ?  Where  will  He  lead 
me  ?  What  will  He  make  me  do  ?  "  And  your  answer 
is,  "  I  do  not  know.  If  I  did  know  I  should  not  need  to 
point  you  to  Him.  I  need  then  only  point  you  to  your 
task.  I  only  know  He  cannot  lead  you  wrong.  I  do 
not  know  His  way,  but  I  know  Him. "  That  is  faith. 
And  if  I  still  persist,  and  say  I  will  not  promise  to 
obey  Him  until  I  know  just  what  He  will  have  me  do, 
so  that  I  can  see  for  myself  that  it  is  the  best  thing  to 
be  done,  then  I  am  asking  not  for  faith  but  for  sight. 
How  simple  it  is.  I  hear  men  praying  everywhere  for 
more  faith,  but  when  I  listen  to  them  carefully  and  get 
at  the  real  heart  of  their  prayers,  very  often  it  is  not 
more  faith  at  all  that  they  are  wanting,  but  a  change 
from  faith  to  sight.  "  What  shall  I  do  with  this  sor- 
row that  God  has  sent  me  ?  "  "  Take  it  up  and  bear  it, 
and  get  a  strength  and  blessing  out  of  it. "  "  Ah,  if  I 
only  knew  what  blessing  there  was  in  it,  if  I  saw  how 
it  would  help  me,  then  I  could  bear  it  like  a  plume ! " 
"What  shall  I  do  with  this  hard,  hateful  duty  which 
Christ  has  laid  right  in  my  way  ?  "  "  Do  it,  and  grow 
by  doing  it."  "Ah,  yes;  if  I  could  only  see  that  it 
irould  make  me  grow. "     In  both  these  cases  do  you  not 


352  The  Illumination  of  Obedience. 

see  that  what  you  are  begging  for  is  not  more  faith,  al- 
though you  think  it  is,  but  sight.  You  want  to  see  for 
yourself  the  blessing  in  the  sorrow,  the  strength  in  the 
hard  and  hateful  task.  Faith  says  not,  "  I  see  that  it 
is  good  for  me,  and  so  God  must  have  sent  it, "  but  "  God 
sent  it,  and  so  it  must  be  good  for  me. "  Faith  walking 
in  the  dark  with  God  only  prays  Him  to  clasp  its  hand 
more  closely,  does  not  even  ask  Him  for  the  lifting  of 
the  darkness  so  that  the  man  may  find  the  way  himself. 
Mary  is  all  faith  when  she  says,  "  Do  what  He  tells  you, 
and  all  must  come  right  simply  because  He  is  He." 
Blessed  the  heart  that  has  learned  such  a  faith  and  can 
stand  among  men  in  all  their  doubts  and  darknesses 
and  just  point  to  Jesus  Christ,  and  say,  "  Do  His  will 
and  everything  must  come  right  with  you.  I  do  not 
know  how,  but  I  know  Him.  God  forbid  that  I  should 
try  to  lead  you,  but  I  can  put  your  hand  in  His  hand 
and  bid  you  go  where  He  shall  carry  you !  " 

There  is  a  reason  then ;  Mary  had  a  right  to  say  what 
she  said  to  the  servants.  We  may  have  good  right  to 
say  the  same  thing  to  ourselves  and  to  each  other. 
There  is  one  complete  act  by  which  a  man  is  justified  in 
taking  his  whole  life  and  giving  it  over  into  the  keep- 
ing and  authority  of  a  Being  whom  he  has  thoroughly 
tried  and  perfectly  trusts.  That  is  the  act  of  faith;  an 
act,  as  I  trust  you  see,  not  irrational  but  full  of  the  pro- 
foundest  spiritual  reason.  There  is  a  conviction  of  our 
Friend's  trustworthiness  so  large  and  deep  that  we  know 
He  must  be  universal.  He  is  not  ours  alone.  He  is  all 
men's  if  they  will  trust  Him  too,  and  so  it  is  possible 
for  us  to  turn  to  every  man  we  meet  and,  out  of  the 


r 


The  Illumination  of  Obedience.  353 

perfect  certainty  of  our  own  heart,  say  to  him,  "  Do  this 
great  act.  Make  this  my  Lord  your  Lord.  Whatso- 
ever He  saith  unto  you,  do  it. "  That  is  the  preaching 
of  faith,  —  the  consummate  work  that  any  man  can  do 
as  it  regards  his  fellow-man,  surpassing  utterly  all  the 
most  wise  and  watchful  care  and  suggestion  about  the 
details  and  special  actions  of  the  life,  this  claiming  of 
the  life  as  one  great  whole  for  its  true  Lord. 

Think  what  there  must  come  —  I  rejoice  to  know  that 
to  many  of  you  I  may  say.  Remember  what  has  come  — 
with  such  a  complete  acceptance  of  the  overlying  and 
surrounding  authority  of  Christ.  The  two  things  that 
men's  lives  want  most  as  they  grow  older  are,  I  think, 
simplicity  and  independence.  We  become  broken  and 
scattered  among  a  thousand  interests  until  life  has  no 
unity,  and  we  become  fettered  by  a  hundred  gradually- 
accumulated  obligations,  till,  without  ever  having  de- 
liberately given  ourselves  away,  we  grow  aware,  with  a 
dull  and  heavy  consciousness,  that  we  are  no  longer  our 
own,  and  cannot  act  ourselves.  The  only  restoration  of 
both  —  of  simplicity  and  independence  —  must  come,  not 
by  the  cutting  off  of  our  relationships  and  the  rebellion 
against  authorities,  —  that  would  be  ruining  the  life  in 
the  vain  attempt  to  save  it,  —  but  by  enveloping  all  the 
relationships  in  one  great  relationship,  and  by  subor- 
dinating all  the  authorities  to  one  great  authority. 
The  child's  life  is  simple  and  independent.  He  can 
think  of  it  as  a  unit,  and  he  can  walk  across  false  mas- 
teries which  try  to  govern  him  almost  without  seeing 
them.  And  why  ?  Because  his  life  is  held,  firmly  and 
warmly,  in  another  life.     It  may  be  that  you  have  lost 

23 


854  The  Illumination  of  Obedience. 

this  privilege  and  power  of  the  child.  If  you  are  like 
most  men,  you  certainly  have  lost  it.  How  shall  you  get 
it  back  ?  There  is  only  one  way,  —  you  must  be  a  child 
again.  You  must  be  converted  and  become  like  a  child. 
Not  by  cutting  your  life  down  and  making  it  meagre  will 
you  make  it  simple,  not  by  making  it  restive  and  rebel- 
lious will  you  make  it  independent ;  but  if  ever,  to-day  or 
any  other  golden  day,  —  though  to-day  is  the  best  day 
in  which  to  do  it  that  you  will  ever  see,  —  if  ever  you 
can  take  your  life  and,  won  by  His  love  and  justified  by 
the  abundant  assurance  of  His  faithfulness  that  He  has 
given  you,  you  can  give  your  life  away  to  Christ,  saying 
as  the  comprehensive  law  of  all  your  action,  "  Whatso- 
ever Thou  sayest  unto  me,  0  Lord,  I  will  do  it,"  then 
simplicity  and  independence  will  open  around  you  like 
the  peace  around  the  disciples  when  their  Lord  was  in 
their  storm-tossed  boat.  Then  you  may  make  your  re- 
lations with  your  fellow-men  as  rich  and  full  as  possible. 
You  may  accumulate  the  dependences  which  make  the 
sweetness  and  value  of  a  life  on  every  side,  but,  held  in 
the  grasp  of  that  great  loyalty,  the  multiplicity  of  life 
shall  make  and  not  destroy  simplicity ;  and  you  shall  be 
men's  servant  without  being  their  slave,  just  as  Jesus 
was,  when  you  are  as  truly  His  servant  as  He  was  the 
servant  of  His  Father. 

I  have  talked  freely  this  morning  about  obeying  Christ, 
about  doing  whatever  Christ  says  to  us.  I  know  that 
there  are  some  souls  among  you  in  which  such  words 
have  started  anew  the  question  and  the  doubt  which  has 
often  haunted  them;  before.     I  must  try  to  show  where 


The  Illumination  of  Obedience.  355 

the  answer  to  that  question  lies,  before  I  let  you  go. 
You  say,  "  I  would  indeed  obey  if  Christ  should  speak 
to  me,  but  can  He  speak  ?  Can  I  hear  Him  and  be  sure 
it  is  His  voice  ?  Oh,  if  I  only  could  have  been  there 
where  He  lived  in  the  flesh !  Then  I  should  have  known 
that  it  was  He.  Now,  is  it  not  all  a  vague  figure  of 
speech  when  you  talk  to  me  about  obeying  Jesus,  a  Jesus 
whom  I  never  saw,  whose  voice  I  never  heard  ?  "  The 
question  is  one  that  easily  becomes  confused  in  theory, 
but  practically  I  believe  that  it  is  much  clearer  than 
we  think.  "Obeying  Christ,"  we  say;  and  what  is 
Christ  ?  I  think  over  all  that  I  know  of  Him,  and  this 
is  what  He  is :  First,  He  is  the  utterance  of  the  eternal 
righteousness,  the  setting  forth  before  men  of  that  su- 
preme nature  in  which  there  is  the  source  and  pattern 
of  all  goodness,  —  God ;  second.  He  is  a  man  of  clear, 
sharp,  definite  character,  who  lived  a  life  in  Palestine 
which  still  shines  with  a  distinctness  that  no  other  hu- 
man life  can  rival ;  third,  by  His  spirit  He  is  a  perpet- 
ual presence,  a  constant  standard  and  inspiration  in  the 
heart  of  every  man  who  loves  and  trusts  Him.  All 
those  things  come  up  to  me  when  I  say  "  Christ. "  And 
now  can  such  a  Christ  speak  to  me  ?  Can  He  say  to  me, 
"  Do  this  ?  '*  If  as  I  think  about  some  act  which  it  is 
possible  for  me  to  do,  there  rise  up  about  that  act  these 
three  convictions :  First,  that  it  is  right,  that  it  is  in 
harmony  with  that  great,  constant  goodness  which  fills 
the  world  and  comes  from  God;  second,  that  that  man 
in  Palestine  would  have  done  it  if  it  had  offered  itself 
to  Him  there  as  it  offers  itself  to  me  here ;  and  third, 
that  if  I  do  it  now,  my  own  soul  will  be  fed  and  strength- 


356  The  Illumination  of  Obedience. 

ened.  If  these  three  convictions  come  and  gather  round 
that  act,  and  take  it  up  and  lay  it  before  my  conscience 
and  my  heart,  then  I  know  Christ  is  bidding  me  do  it. 
Is  that  clear  ?  There  is  some  act  that  you  are  ques 
tioning,  about  to-morrow  or  to-day.  If  Jesus  were  at 
hand,  you  would  go  out  and  ask  Him,  —  "  Is  it  Thy  will 
that  I  should  do  it,  oh,  my  Lord  ?  "  Can  you  not  ask 
Him  now  ?  Is  the  act  right  ?  Would  He  do  it  ?  Will 
it  help  your  soul  ?  It  is  not  often  that  a  man  really  is 
in  doubt  who  seriously  wants  to  know  the  answer  to  any 
of  these  questions.  And  if  the  answer  to  them  all  is 
"  yes ! "  then  it  is  just  as  truly  His  command  that  you 
should  do  that  act  as  if  His  gracious  figure  stood  before 
your  sight  and  His  finger  visibly  pointed  to  the  task. 
You  say,  perhaps,  "  I  might  know  that  an  act  was  right 
and  that  would  be  enough,  without  bringing  in  Christ  at 
all.  Why  need  I  think  of  it  as  His  command  ?  "  Only 
because  He  is  just  that,  — the  reassertion,  the  enforce- 
ment of  essential  duty.  He  does  not  make  righteous- 
ness, He  reveals  it ;  and  when  the  soul  that  loves  Him 
does  an  act  at  His  command  it  is  conscious  that  it  is 
doing  that  which  in  the  very  nature  of  things,  in  the 
very  nature  of  God,   it  was  bound  to  do. 

But  let  us  not  grow  confused  with  many  words.  I 
turn  to  your  own  consciences,  dear  friends.  Is  there 
nothing  that  Christ  as  your  friend,  your  Lord,  your  Sa- 
viour, wants  you  to  do  that  you  are  leaving  undone  to- 
day ?  Do  you  doubt  one  instant  that  with  His  high  and 
deep  love  for  your  soul.  He  wants  you  to  pray  ?  —  And 
do  you  pray  ?  Do  you  doubt  one  instant  that  it  is  His 
will  that  you  should  honor  and  help  and  bless  all  these 


The  Illumination  of  Obedience.  357 

men  about  you  who  are  His  brethren  ?  —  And  are  you  do- 
ing anything  like  that  ?  Do  you  doubt  one  instant  that 
His  will  is  that  you  should  make  life  serious  and  lofty  ? 
• —  And  are  you  making  it  frivolous  and  low  ?  Do  you 
doubt  one  instant  that  He  wants  you  to  be  pure  in  deed 
and  word  and  thought  ?  —  And  are  you  pure  ?  Do  you 
doubt  one  instant  that  His  command  is  for  you  openly  to 
own  Him  and  declare  that  you  are  His  servant  before 
all  the  world  ?  —  And  have  you  done  it  ?  These  are  the 
questions  which  make  the  whole  matter  clear.  No,  not 
in  quiet  lanes,  nor  in  bright  temple-courts  as  once  He 
spoke,  and  not  from  blazing  heavens  as  men  seem  some- 
times to  expect,  —  not  so  does  Christ  speak  to  us.  And 
yet  He  speaks !  I  know  what  He,  there  in  His  glory, 
He  here  in  my  heart,  wants  me  to  do  to-day,  and  I  know 
that  I  am  not  mistaken  in  my  knowledge.  It  is  no 
guess  of  mine.     It  is  His  voice  that  tells  me. 

How  full  of  mystery  and  light  our  life  becomes  as  we 
go  on  into  it,  not  knowing  what  there  will  be  there  for 
us  to  do,  but  knowing  that  through  it  all  He  will  be 
with  us  and  in  us  giving  us  His  commandments,  and 
resolved  only  on  this,  that  whatsoever  He  shall  say  to 
us,  we  will  do  it  always.  What  will  He  say  ?  What 
wondrous  new  commandments  has  He  in  reserve  which, 
as  we  lovingly  obey  them,  are  to  make  the  interest  and 
growth  and  glory  of  these  coming  years  ? 

And  let  us  remember  that  here,  in  what  we  have  been 
thinking  of  this  morning,  lies  the  real  bond  of  union 
between  this  life  and  what  we  choose  to  call  "  the  other 
life,"  —  the  life  that  lies  beyond  the  grave.  There  as 
here  obedience  to  Christ  and  everlasting  revelation  of 


358  The  Illumination  of  Obedience. 

Christ  to  the  obedient  soul  is  to  be  the  essence  and  de- 
light of  life.  Oh,  my  dear  friends,  let  us  do  whatsoever 
He  saith  unto  us  now,  that  then  we  may  be  ready  for 
the  higher  duties  and  the  completer  revelations  which 
He  will  have  to  give  us  through  eternity. 


XXI. 

THE  CEKTAIN  END. 
Then  cometh  the  end.  —  1  Cor.  xv.  24. 

It  is  not  possible  to  rule  these  words  out  of  life. 
They  are  perpetually  recurring.  You  tell  of  any  pro- 
cess ;  you  trace  out  how  it  is  going  to  work  on  from  step 
to  step ;  you  see  how  cause  opens  into  effect  and  then 
effect,  becoming  cause,  opens  into  still  further  effect 
beyond,  —  but  always,  by  and  by,  your  thought  comes 
to  a  stoppage  and  a  change.  The  process  is  exhausted. 
"Then  cometh  the  end."  Your  story  has  to  round 
itself  with  that. 

We  look  into  a  child's  face  and  imagine  the  life  which 
he  will  live.  We  see  him  growing  up  from  childhood 
into  manhood;  all  the  works  that  he  will  do,  all  the 
truths  that  he  will  learn,  all  the  associations  that  he 
will  form,  roll  out  their  length  before  us:  we  let  our 
eye  run  along  their  course ;  but  at  last  we  must  reach  the 
point  where,  "Then  cometh  the  end,"  sums  up  and 
closes  all. 

You  start  upon  a  new  business,  you  build  you  a  new 
house,  you  set  on  foot  some  new  measure  of  public  policy, 
you  begin  some  new  study,  you  enter  some  new  school, 
—  whatever  you  do,  however  long  are  the  anticipations 
of  what  you  undertake,  there  is  where  they  all  arrive  at 


360  The  Certain  End. 


last.  "  Then  cometh  the  end, "  is  written,  however  far 
away,  as  the  conclusion  which  all  must  reach. 

And  if  we  go  far  out  beyond  the  little  reach  of  our 
own  personal  affairs,  still  it  is  the  same.  Our  text  is 
telling  us  of  Christ.  Here  is  the  great  work  which  He 
is  doing,  conquering  death,  redeeming  men  from  sin, 
claiming  the  world  for  God ;  but  even  of  His  work  it  is 
written,  "  Then  cometh  the  end,  when  he  shall  have  de- 
livered up  the  kingdom  to  God,  even  the  Father ;  when 
He  shall  have  put  down  all  rule  and  all  authority  and 
power. "  Even  the  great  redemptive  work  of  Christ  must 
some  day  be  folded  up  and  finished,  and  some  new  dis- 
pensation, some  longer  expression  of  the  life  of  God 
upon  the  life  of  men  must  come  to  take  its  place. 

This  constant  recurrence  of  ends  and  finishing  places 
in  life  must  certainly  mean  something.  It  may  beget 
a  mere  frivolity.  It  may  make  it  seem  as  if  nothing 
were  worth  beginning  very  earnestly  or  prosecuting 
very  thoroughly.  "  What  is  the  use  ?  "  a  man  may  say. 
"  If  every  thing  I  do,  every  bit  of  work  I  undertake,  is 
to  be  hurried  up  and  tossed  aside  for  a  new  work,  if  my 
whole  life  is  some  morning  to  be  rounded  off  where 
that  morning  happens  to  find  it,  and  the  poor-finished, 
unfinished  thing  is  to  be  flung  into  the  basket,  and  an- 
other life  is  to  be  set  up  on  these  spindles  of  circum- 
stances where  mine  is  whirling  now,  what  is  the  use  ? 
Why  should  I  be  thoughtful?  Why  should  I  be 
serious  ?    Let  me  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry, " 

Another  man  gets  out  of  precisely  the  same  state  of 
things  a  totally  different  impression.  This  quick, 
sharp  beat  in  life,  this  constant  coming  round  to  where 


The  Certain  End.  361 


the  shears  cut  off  the  work,  and  where  if  it  is  not  done 
it  has  to  stay  undone  forever,  this  perpetual  ripening 
of  processes  which  makes  the  seed-time  of  new  pro- 
cesses beyond,  this  constant  ending  and  beginning, 
gives  a  freshness  and  vitality  to  living  which  is  exhil- 
arating and  delightful.  It  seems  to  be  always  bringing 
life  back  to  report  itself  to  its  first  principles  and  fun- 
damental motives.  It  is  forever  breaking  up  routines 
and  starting  things  anew.  It  demands  briskness  and 
promptness.  "  Now  or  never  you  must  do  this  thing, " 
it  seems  to  say,  "  for  in  a  few  moments  the  chance  is 
over  and  then  cometh  the  end." 

Let  us  think  of  this  characteristic  of  life  and  try  to 
see  what  it  means.  Let  us  see  what  sort  of  temper  and 
spirit  it  ought  to  produce,  —  this  law  of  life  that  all 
things  come  to  an  end,  that  only  by  perpetual  stoppage 
and  re-starting  is  motion  kept  up,  only  by  perpetual 
perishing  is  life  maintained. 

And  we  may  begin  by  noting  this,  —  which  is  the 
most  striking  thing  about  the  whole  matter,  —  the  way 
in  which  men's  desire  and  men's  dread  are  both  called 
out  by  this  constant  coming  of  the  ends  of  things.  The 
human  soul,  as  I  have  been  saying,  at  once  delights  in 
and  shudders  at  this  perpetual  finishing  and  re-begin- 
ning, this  stopping  and  re-starting  of  the  works  of  life. 

Look  first  at  man's  desire  of  the  end.  It  is,  in  the 
most  superficial  aspect  of  it,  a  part  of  his  dread  of  mo- 
notony. There  is  something  very  pathetic,  it  seems  to 
me,  in  man's  instinctive  fear  of  being  wearied  with 
even  the  most  delightful  and  satisfactory  of  all  the  ex- 
periences which  he  meets  with  in  the  world.     la  it  not 


362  The  Certain  End. 


a  sign,  one  of  the  many  signs,  of  man's  sense  that  his 
nature  is  made  for  larger  worlds  than  this,  and  only 
abides  here  temporarily  and  in  education  for  destinies 
which  shall  be  more  worthy  of  its  capacities  ?  The 
friendship  which  seems  to  give  you  all  that  your  heart 
requires,  the  occupation  which  seems  to  call  out  all  your 
powers,  the  opinions  which  embody  your  whole  present 
view  of  truth,  —  all  of  these,  if  you  come  to  be  more 
than  you  are  now,  must  fail  you,  and  prove  insufficient. 
Even  this  earthly  life  itself,  delightfully  rich  and  vari- 
ous as  it  is,  deep  has  been  the  instinct  in  the  human 
heart  which  has  felt  that  it  would  be  a  terrible  thing  to 
have  it  last  forever.  "I  would  not  live  alway,"  has 
been  a  true  cry  of  the  human  soul.  The  wandering 
Jew,  compelled  to  live  on  until  the  Saviour  came  again, 
has  been  one  of  the  most  fearful  figures  which  have 
haunted  the  imagination  of  mankind.  Man's  mere 
dread  of  monotony,  his  sense  of  the  awful  weariness  of 
living  forever,  has  always  made  him  rejoice  that,  far  off 
but  still  in  sight,  down  the  long  avenues  of  living,  he 
could  read  the  inscription  of  release,  "  Then  cometh  the 
end." 

But  this  is  the  most  superficial  aspect  of  it.  There 
is  something  deeper  in  man's  desire  to  anticipate  an  end 
than  this.  Very  early  in  every  experience  there  comes 
the  sense  of  imperfection  and  failure  in  what  we  have 
already  done,  and  the  wish  that  it  were  possible  to  be- 
gin the  game  again.  There  is  a  curious  phenomenon 
that  often  takes  us  by  surprise  as  it  comes  just  in  the 
full  freshness  of  the  new  human  life :  The  young  man 
of  twenty  in  his  newly  undertaken  work  or  in  his  col- 


The  Certain  End.  363 


lege-room  breaks  out  in  pessimistic  railing  at  the  misery 
and  unsatisfactoriness  of  life.  He  sings  great  psalms 
of  misery  and  disappointment.  We  laugh  at  that  some- 
times, and  call  it  foolish  affectation.  It  seems  to  be  a 
feeble  effort  to  create  or  imagine  an  experience  which 
does  not  exist.  No  doubt  that  element  is  in  it,  and 
that  is  worthy  of  our  laughter;  but  something  else  is 
in  it  also.  The  cry  of  the  boy  of  twenty  that  life  is  too 
long,  that  the  end  is  far  away,  that  there  are  weary 
years  to  travel  before  the  end  is  reached, — that  cry  does 
not  come  from  very  deep  down  in  the  soul.  The  soul  is 
really  full  of  joy  in  life,  of  gladness  in  the  abundant 
days  and  in  the  years  of  bounteous  promise;  but  this 
cry,  so  far  as  it  is  real,  means  the  beginning  of  satisfac- 
tion in  the  fact  that  there  is  an  end.  Already  there  are 
some  things  in  life  which  the  soul  would  fain  get  out  of 
life.  The  first  sketch  has  so  marred  the  canvas  that 
the  perfect  picture  seems  impossible. 

And  as  life  goes  on  to  more  than  twenty  that  convic- 
tion grows.  The  cry  may  not  be  uttered  as  it  was  at  first. 
The  habit  of  living  gets  to  be  so  strong  that  men  do  not 
think  so  much  about  the  end,  but  the  expectation  of  it 
and  the  comfort  of  the  expectation  of  it  are  still  there. 
Tell  any  man  that  he,  out  of  all  these  mortals,  was  never 
to  die,  that  there  was  to  be  no  end  for  him,  and,  what- 
ever might  be  his  first  emotion,  by  and  by  must  come 
something  like  dismay;  for  every  man  has  gathered 
something  which  he  must  get  rid  of,  something  which 
he  would  not  carry  always,  and  so  there  is  promise  to 
him  when  it  is  prophesied,  "Then  cometh  the  end." 

But  it  is  not  only  the  sense  of  the  evil  element  in 


364  The  Certain  End. 


life  that  makes  men  think  with  satisfaction  of  the 
coming  end.  So  far  as  life  has  been  a  success  and 
developed  its  better  power,  the  same  satisfaction  comes. 
It  is  a  poor  and  pathetic  and  desperate  thing  for  a 
traveller  along  a  dreary  and  difficult  road  to  look  for- 
ward to  where  the  road  evidently  takes  a  sharp  turn 
into  the  mountains  and  say  to  himself,  "Thank  God, 
there  is  an  end  to  this !  Thank  God,  the  new  road 
which  I  cannot  see  cannot  be  worse  than  this  which  I 
am  travelling  now!"  But  for  a  man  to  say,  "This 
road  is  glorious,  but  I  am  glad  to  see  that  it  stops  yon- 
der ;  for  no  doubt  beyond  is  something  yet  more  glori- 
ous still,"  that  is  a  fine  impatience.  The  noblest 
human  natures  are  built  thus,  with  such  a  conscious- 
ness of  their  own  capacity,  with  such  a  feeling  of  eter- 
nity, with  such  an  assurance  of  the  richness  of  living, 
that  all  the  best  which  they  enjoy  and  see  and  are,  be- 
comes suggestive  and  prophetic.  Perfectly  satisfied 
with  it  for  the  present,  the  moment  that  you  shut  down 
the  curtain  on  it  and  said,  "That  is  all,"  the  color 
would  be  gone,  the  exhilaration  and  splendor  would 
have  vanished.  But  let  the  life  be  filled  with  the  spirit 
of  the  springtime.  Let  the  voice  in  its  heart  always 
keep  saying  to  it,  "You  are  to  go  on  filling  yourself 
with  vitality  and  joy,  day  after  day,  month  after  month, 
and  then  cometh  the  end,  then  cometh  the  end;"  and 
then  it  is  not  a  cessation  of  life  but  fuller  life  which  the 
heart  expects.  The  end  which  comes  to  the  promise  of 
springtime  shall  be  the  luxuriance  of  summer ! 

And  so  in  many  tones,  yet  all  of  them  tones  of  satis- 
faction, men  desire  the  end.     Sometimes  it  is  pathetic, 


The  Certain  End.  365 


sometimes  it  is  triumphant,  but,  either  way,  it  rejoices 
in  this  arrangement  of  life  by  which  things  do  not  move 
on  in  unbroken  processes  to  their  results,  but  there  are 
always  endings  and  beginnings.  It  is  like  a  great  com- 
pany of  travellers  coming  together  in  sight  of  the  rest- 
ing-place where  they  are  to  spend  the  night,  and  lifting 
up  all  together  one  great  shout  of  joy.  Their  hearts 
have  various  feelings.  Some  are  glad  because  their 
day's  task  is  done,  others  are  glad  because  of  the  new 
task  which,  standing  on  this  summit  of  attainment,  they 
can  see  opening  out  beyond  them  for  to-morrow;  but 
all  are  glad.  The  end  to  which  they  are  coming  meets 
their  desire. 

But  now,  with  all  this  full  in  our  sight,  turn  to  the 
other  side  and  think  of  the  dread  with  which  men 
think  of  the  coming  of  ends  in  life.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  such  dread  does  come  to  men  when  those 
changes  are  prophesied  which  are  always  sure  to  be 
waiting  in  the  distance.  Indeed  the  general  sense  of 
the  changefulness  of  things  is  what  sends  such  a  perva- 
sive sense  of  insecurity  through  all  our  ordinary  living. 
Let  that  be  taken  away,  let  the  dread  of  change  be 
driven  out  from  this  half -conscious  possession  which  it 
holds  on  all  we  do  and  think  and  say,  and  it  would 
be  as  if  a  dull  and  threatening  day  had  cleared  up  into 
sunshine.  The  birds  would  burst  out  into  song,  and 
every  twig  upon  the  trees  would  quiver  into  bud  and 
blossom. 

Can  we  give  any  account  of  this  dread  which  thus 
haunts  the  very  feature  of  life  which,  as  we  have  seen, 
wakens   also  the  almost  enthusiastic  desire  of  men's 


366  The  Certain  End. 


souls  ?  We  can  at  least  see  what  some  of  its  elements 
are. 

The  first  of  them  is  almost  too  dull  and  mechanical 
to  give  any  account  of  itself,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it 
is  very  real.  It  is  the  sheer  force  of  habit.  It  is  the 
inertia  of  life.  That  this  which  is  should  cease  to  be 
is  shocking  and  surprising.  Let  it  continue.  Let 
there  be  no  disturbance.  So  the  soul  shrinks  from 
change.  So  it  shudders  as,  far  away,  it  hears  the  mur- 
mur of  the  sea  whose  shores  it  must  reach  at  last  and 
end  its  journey  and  embark  on  something  new. 

Even  in  that  dread  of  inertia  there  is  something 
which  is  good.  It  is  good  for  the  tree  to  love  the  soil 
in  which  it  grows  and  to  consent  with  difficulty  to 
transplanting,  and  not  to  have  a  restless  habit  of  skip- 
ping constantly  from  field  to  field.  It  is  good  that  the 
burden  of  proof  should  be  on  the  side  of  change. 

But  there  is  something  more  than  this  mere  force  of 
habit.  I  think  that  very  often  one  shrinks  from  the 
announcement  of  the  coming  end  of  the  condition  in 
which  he  is  now  living  because,  when  he  hears  it,  he 
becomes  aware  how  far  he  is  from  having  yet  exhausted 
the  condition  in  which  he  is  now  living.  A  boy  has 
longed  to  be  a  man,  but  when  he  stands  upon  the  brink 
of  manhood  and  looks  behind  him  over  the  yet-un- 
reaped  acres  of  his  youth,  he  is  almost  ready  to  go  back 
and  postpone  his  manhood  till  he  has  taken  richer  pos- 
session of  those  harvest-fields.  The  scholar-period  of 
some  man's  life  is  over,  and  the  working  days  are  ready 
to  begin.  How  many  students  have  stood  and  gazed 
back  over  the  calm  days  of  books,  and  hated  the  thought 


The  Certain  End.  367 


of  going  out  and  leaving  all  the  stores  of  learning  whicli 
were  lying  there  unlearned.  And  so  of  the  great  end, 
- — the  mighty  change.  Who  wants  to  die  so  long  as 
this  great  rich  world  has  only  had  the  very  borders  of 
its  riches  touched,  so  long  as  the  fountains  are  spring- 
ing everywhere  of  the  mere  overflow  of  one  or  two  of 
which  only  our  lips  have  drunk  ?  This  is  no  slight 
tie  to  life,  no  small  element  in  the  dread  of  death,  — 
this  sense  of  the  unexhausted  richness  of  the  life  we 
leave. 

But  even  more  than  this,  perhaps,  comes  in  the  great 
uncertainty  which  envelops  every  experience  which  is 
untried.     The  great  mystery  of  the  unlived  is  a  strong 
element  in   our   dread   of   change.     Your  friend  may 
tell   you   everything   about   it,    but  you  cannot   really 
know  any  experience  till  you  have  passed  through   it 
yourself.     The  passage  from  light  into  light  must   be 
always  through  a  zone  of  darkness.     How  we  are  feeling 
this  in  these  days  in  which  we  live !     Old  social  condi- 
tions are  ceasing  to  be  possible  any  longer.     In  their 
place  new  ones  are  evidently  coming,  which,  when  they 
shall  have  come,  we  know  will  be  more  just  and  happy 
and  humane  than  those  which  we  have  known  so  long ; 
but  who  that  feels  this  most  deeply  is  not  conscious  of 
misgiving  and  of  dread  as  he  enters  with  his  time  into 
the  cloud  of  disturbance   that  hovers  between  the  old 
and  the  new  ?     Whenever  a  great  public  policy  has  ex- 
hausted itself  and  must  be  exchanged  for  a  broader  and 
a  better,   it  is  not  mere  blind  conservatism,   it  is  the 
true  sense  that  in  the  untried  ways  must  lie  unguessed 
dangers  that  makes  every  wise  man,  however  determined 


368  The  Certain  End. 


he  may  be,  pause  in  a  momentary  dread  and  hesitate  a 
second  —  and,  if  he  be  a  real  servant  of  God,  pray  for 
new  grace  —  before  he  cuts  loose  from  the  familiar 
shore,  and  sails  out  on  to  the  untried  seas.  We  dread 
the  end  even  of  that  condition  whose  imperfectness  we 
know  by  sad  experience.  This  is  a  large  part  of  the 
reason  why  the  most  miserable  cling  to  life,  counting 
it  better  — 

"  to  bear  the  ills  they  have 
Than  flee  to  others  which  they  know  not  of." 

Thus  we  recount  our  human  lot,  and  see  man  stand- 
ing in  desire  and  in  dread,  at  once,  of  this  perpetual 
change,  this  perpetual  coming  of  the  end  of  things. 
Blessed  indeed  it  is  for  man,  standing  in  such  confused 
and  mingled  mood,  that  the  end  of  things  does  not  de- 
pend upon  his  choice,  but  comes  by  a  will  more  large, 
more  wise  than  his.  If  we  ourselves  had  to  give  the 
signal  when  each  experience  would  close;  if  the  boy 
must  say  when  he  had  been  boy  long  enough,  and 
summon  the  man's  responsibilities  to  gather  out  of  the 
vague  world  and  rest  upon  him ;  if  our  own  hand  must 
be  put  forth  to  disturb  the  settled  peace,  and  waken 
confusion  and  perplexity ;  if  at  last  we  must  with  our 
own  finger  give  the  sign  that  the  time  had  come  for  the 
mortal  to  put  on  immortality,  —  how  the  desire  and  the 
dread  would  fight  within  us!  In  large  part  we  are 
spared  all  that.  The  workman's  voice  has  not  to  sum- 
mon out  of  the  east  the  shadows  of  the  night  in  which 
no  man  can  work.  "  It  comes  of  itself, "  we  say.  We 
mean,  and  when  we  speak  with  perfect  reverence  and 
truth,  we  say,   "God  sends  it." 


The  Certain  End.  369 


God  sends  it !  And  when  we  do  indeed  say  that,  does 
there  not  come  at  once  some  sort  of  larger  light  into 
this  mixed  condition,  this  double  attitude  of  man  to- 
ward the  changefulness  of  life  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking  ?  That  thing  which  man  thus  alternately,  and 
sometimes  even  simultaneously,  desires  and  dreads,  if 
we  consider  it  only  with  reference  to  man,  is  all  con- 
fusion. We  can  make  nothing  of  it.  Who  can  say 
whether  it  be  good  or  evil,  blessing  or  curse,  wisdom 
or  blunder,  —  this  perpetual  hurrying  of  all  things  to 
their  end  ?  But  if  around  this  instability  of  human  life 
is  wrapped  the  great  permanence  of  the  life  of  God ;  if 
no  end  comes  which  is  not  in  His  sight  truly  a  begin- 
ning; nay,  if  the  whole  element  of  time  is  so  lost  in 
His  eternity  that  not  the  beginning  and  the  ending  of 
experiences  but  their  spiritual  relations  to  our  growing 
characters  is  everything, — then  is  there  not  light  upon 
it  all  ?  To  value  everything  which  comes  to  me,  and  yet 
to  know  that  not  its  form  but  its  spiritual  essence  is 
really  valuable,  therefore  to  hasten  while  I  have  it  to 
get  out  of  it  what  it  has  to  give  me,  and  to  even  rejoice 
that  some  day  in  the  loss  of  its  formal  presence  I  shall 
be  able  to  make  myself  completely  sure  of  the  posses- 
sion of  its  spirit,  —  that  is  the  true  attitude  of  the  soul 
toward  every  good  thing  that  God  gives, — health,  friends 
wealth,  learning,  life.  But  that  true  attitude  the  soul 
cannot  keep  toward  them  all  unless  they  all  mean  God, 
come  by  His  gift,  and  are  instinct  with  His  spiritual 
intention. 

How  many  things  there  are  of  which  we  say,  "  I  thank 
God  I  may  do  this,  but  I  thank  God  also  that  the  time 

94 


370  The  Certain  End. 


will  come  when  I  shall  stop  doing  this  and  do  it  no 
longer. "  The  business  in  which  we  engage  to  earn  ouf 
bread,  the  slight  associations  and  partnerships  which 
we  make  for  special  purposes  with  our  fellow-men,  the 
journeys  which  we  undertake,  the  schools  in  which  we 
spend  our  years  of  study,  the  houses  which  we  build  to 
live  in,  —  all  these  are  of  this  sort.  They  are  good  and 
welcome  because  they  are  but  for  a  while.  Our  mortal 
life,  that  too  we  are  thankful  for,  but  thankful  also  that 
it  shall  not  last  forever.  But  all  this  satisfaction  in 
the  temporariness  comes  only  from  its  being  enfolded 
and  embraced  within  the  eternity  of  the  eternal.  There 
must  be  something  which  does  not  pass  away,  something 
to  which  comes  no  end.  The  soul  and  its  character, 
God  and  His  love  and  glory,  —  it  is  because  within 
these  as  the  ends  of  life  all  other  things  are  enfolded  as 
the  means  of  life,  that  we  can  be  reconciled  to,  nay, 
even  can  rejoice  in  the  knowledge  that  the  means  must 
cease  when  they  shall  have  made  their  contribution  to 
the  end  which  must  endure  forever. 

But  to  know  no  everlasting  end  or  purpose,  to  have 
nothing  but  the  means  to  rest  on,  to  see  them  slipping 
out  of  our  grasp  and  leaving  nothing  permanent  behind, 
— that  is  terrible! 

How  is  it  with  you,  oh,  my  friend  ?  There  comes  an 
end  to  all  these  things  which  you  are  doing  now !  Not 
because  God  snatches  them  out  of  your  hands,  but  be- 
cause they  exhaust  themselves  and  expire,  because  they 
are  by  their  nature  temporary  and  perishing,  they  die. 
You  follow  out  any  of  them  a  little  way  and  you  come 
to  this  inevitable  epitaph  of  their  mortality,   "Then 


The  Certain  End.  371 


Cometh  the  end. "  How  is  it  then  with  you  ?  Have  you 
anything  which  is  not  perishable  ?  Have  you  anything 
to  which  there  comes  no  end  ?  "  What  ?  "  you  say ; 
"  what  sort  of  thing  ?  "  And  I  reply,  "  Any  passion  for 
character  and  love  of  God ! "  Those  are  eternal.  There 
comes  no  end  to  those.  You  may  change  your  dress, 
your  name,  your  habits,  your  companionships,  your 
work,  —  everything  that  you  do,  —  but  your  passion  for 
character  and  love  for  God,  if  you  have  them,  you  never 
change;  they  are  the  same  forever.  New  temptations 
spring  out  of  new  soil,  and  the  old  hatred  of  sin  leaps 
on  its  feet  to  fight  them.  New  chances  of  goodness 
start  up  in  some  completely  novel  life,  and  the  old  eager- 
ness for  goodness  cries  out  and  claims  them  for  its  own. 
There  is  no  end  to  the  great  ends  of  life.  K  one  is 
living  in  the  resolute  pursuit  of  them,  he  may  first 
welcome,  and  then  rejoice  to  leave  behind  the  several 
means  which  in  succession  come  to  offer  him  their  help 
toward  the  attainment  of  those  ends,  as  the  traveller 
whose  heart  is  set  upon  some  distant  city  rejoices  when 
he  comes  to,  and  then  rejoices  when  he  gets  beyond, 
each  field  and  river  which  must  be  crossed  before  he 
enters  the  far-off  city-gates. 

A  noble  independence  this  gives  to  a  man's  soul. 
Poverty  comes  up  and  joins  you,  and  you  say,  "  Welcome, 
Poverty.  We  will  walk  together  for  a  while,  and  when 
I  have  done  with  you,  when  you  have  done  for  me  all 
that  you  can,  then  you  shall  go.  I  will  dismiss  you 
with  my  thanks. "  Riches  comes  rolling  up  to  be  your 
fellow-traveller,  and  you  say,  "  Welcome,  Riches.  There 
will  come  an  end  to  you;  but  while  you  last  we  will 


372  The  Certain  End. 


be  friends,  and  you  shall  help  me."  Men  praise  you 
and  you  accept  their  praise  as,  when  you  are  sailing 
in  a  ship,  you  accept  a  wind  which  will  not  last  for- 
ever, but  which  while  it  lasts  may  fill  your  sails  and 
speed  you  on  your  way.  Men  blame  you,  and  you  take 
their  blame  and  bid  it  make  you  humble  that  you  may 
be  more  strong,  because  more  trustful  of  a  greater  than 
yourself  when  the  sunshine  comes  again.  The  more 
your  soul  is  set  upon  the  ends  of  life,  the  more  you  use 
its  means  in  independence.  You  use  them  as  a  work- 
man uses  his  tools,  taking  them  up  in  quick  succession, 
casting  them  down  one  after  the  other,  never  falling  in 
love  with  the  tool  because  the  work  possesses  him. 

To-day,  upon  Palm  Sunday,  Jesus  comes  riding  into 
Jerusalem  in  the  midst  of  palm-branches  and  hosannas. 
Next  Thursday,  He  is  prostrate  in  Gethsemane.  Next 
Friday,  He  is  hanging  on  the  Cross.  Next  Sunday,  He 
is  rising  from  the  tomb.  The  great  experiences  come 
quick  on  one  another.  Joy  crowds  on  sorrow,  sorrow 
presses  on  the  steps  of  joy.  To  each  comes  the  quick 
end.  Each  is  but  born  before  it  dies.  But  one  thing 
never  dies,  — the  service  of  His  Father,  the  salvation  of 
the  world,  the  sum  and  substance  of  His  life !  Set  upon 
that,  with  His  soul  full  of  that,  joy  comes  and  pain 
comes,  and  both  are  welcomed  and  dismissed  with  thank- 
fulness because  their  coming  and  their  going  bring  the 
end  for  which  He  lives  more  near. 

Such  be  our  lives !  As  Jesus  was,  so  may  we  be, 
seeking  an  end  so  gi'eat,  so  constant,  so  eternal  that 
every  change  may  come  to  us  and  be  our  minister  and 
not  our  conqueror ;  that  even  our  cross  may  come  as  His 


The  Certain  End.  373 


came,  and  men  may  gather  round  it  and  say,  "Alas, 
then  this  is  all !  Alas,  that  finally  it  should  all  come 
to  this ! "  While  we  who  hang  upon  the  cross  cry,  "  It  is 
finished, "  with  a  shout  of  triumph,  counting  the  finish- 
ing but  a  new  beginning,  and  looking  out  beyond  thr 
cross  to  richer  growth  in  character,  and  braver  and  n^ 
fruitful  service  of  our  Lord ! 


THE  END. 


A   lAhrary   of  Information    in   One  Volume 


THE   TEMPLE 

BBLE  DICTIONARY 

Edited  by 

The  Rev.  W.  EWING,  M.  A. 

The  Rev.  J.  E.  H.  THOMSON,  D.  D. 


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THE    TEMPLE   BIBLE   DICTIONARY 


THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  DICTIONARY. 

THE  REV.  W.  EWING,  M.  A.,  the  Editor-in-Chief,  is  a 
native  of  the  South  of  Scotland.  He  graduated  from  the 
University  of  Glasgow  with  distinction  in  Logic  and  Moral 
Philosophy.  After  taking  a  post-graduate  theological  course 
at  the  Free  Church  College,  Glasgow,  he  studied  at  Leipzic 
under  Delitzch,  and  after  ordination  went  to  Palestine  as  a 
missionary — his  work  there  being  centered  principally  around 
Tiberias,  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee. 

Here  his  proficiency  in  the  native  tongues  and  his  persistent 
activity  made  him  an  influence  throughout  the  surrounding 
country,  both  in  the  villages  of  the  peasantry  and  in  the 
encampments  of  the  wandering  Arabs. 

Returning  to  England  in  1893,  Mr.  Ewing  has  occupied 
important  pulpits  in  Birmingham,  Glasgow,  Stirling,  and 
Edinburgh. 

He  has  also  contributed  a  great  deal  to  current  literature  on 
oriental  subjects.  He  wrote  many  of  the  articles  dealing  with 
the  East  in  the  dictionaries  edited  by  Dr.  Hastings,  and  is  the 
author  of  the  well  known  book,  "Arab  and  Druze  at  Home." 

For  upwards  of  seven  years  he  has  contributed  articles  on 
oriental  subjects  to  the  American  Sunday  School  Times,  thus — 
so  to  speak — preparing  himself  for  the  very  responsible  posi- 
tion he  now  occupies  as  editor  of  the  TEMPLE  BIBLE  DIC- 
TIONARY. 

DR.  J.  E.  H.  THOMSON,  D.  D.,  the  Associate  Editor,  is 
also  a  Glasgow  University  graduate,  but  took  his  post-graduate 
work  at  Edinburgh,  where  he  was  medallist  in  Logic  and 
Moral  Philosophy. 

After  graduation  he  engaged  in  literary  work,  and  travelled 
on  the  Continent  of  Europe.  His  first  important  book,  "Books 
Which  Influenced  our  Lord  and  His  Apostles,"  appeared  in  1891 
and  at  once  took  rank  as  a  standard  work  on  Apocalyptic  litera- 
ture and  gained  him  admission  to  the  staff  of  the  "Pulpit 
Commentary.  " 

In  1895,  Dr.  Thomson  went  to  Palestine  as  Free  Church 
Missionary  to  the  Jews,  and  was  stationed  at  Safed,  in 
Napthali,  the  loftiest  city  in  Palestine.  From  this  point  he 
made  frequent  journeys  throughout  Palestine  to  all  the 
points  famous  in  the  Old  and  New  Testaments. 


THE   TEMPLE  BIBLE  DICTIONARl? 


Briefly,  the  practical  experience  of  both  Editors  has  put 
them  in  a  position  to  know  what  is  needful  in  a  Bible  Diction- 
ary which  is  to  be  used  by  practical  workers  and  students — 
and  has  given  them  that  thorough,  first-hand  knowledge  of 
Bible  Lands  and  Peoples,  which  only  actual  contact  can 
bestow. 

THE  LIST  OF  CONTRIBUTORS  incmdes  manyof  the  best 
orientalists  and  archaeologists,  the  names  of  such  men  as  Pro- 
fessor Margolioth,  M.  A.,  Litt.  D.,  etc.,  professor  of  Arabic  in 
the  University  of  Oxford,  Professor  A.  H.  Sayce,  LL.D.,D. 
C.  L.,  Litt.  D.,  professor  of  Assyriology  in  the  same  Univer- 
sity, the  Lord  Bishop  of  Ripon,  Professors  Mackintosh  of 
Edinburgh  University,  Wenley  of  the  University  of  Michigan, 
Dalman  of  Leipzic,  Anderson  Scott  of  Cambridge,  James 
Robertson  of  Glasgow,  being  guarantees  of  accuracy,  scholar- 
ship, culture  and  precision. 

THE  OBJECT  OF  THE  WORK: 

The  results  of  the  research  and  criticism  have  in  the  last 
few  years  been  cumulative  in  their  effect.  Egypt  and  the 
Euphrates  Valley,  Asia  Minor,  Syria,  and  Palestine  itself, 
through  the  researches  of  Ramsay,  Petrie,  Conder  and  others, 
have  yielded  up  enough  of  their  secrets  for  us  to  be  able  to 
lift  with  practical  completeness  the  veil  which  has  for  centuries 
obscured  Bibical  lands  from  the  accurate  comprehension  of 
Western  people. 

At  the  same  time  the  vastly  conflicting  views  of  scholars 
with  regard  to  the  date,  authorship,  mode  of  composition,  trust- 
worthiness, etc.  of  the  various  books  of  the  Canon  of  Scripture 
have  settled  down  to  a  stable  mean  which  is  not  liable  to  vary 
very  much  for  many  years  to  come — either  in  the  direction  of 
conservatism  or  in  that  of  radical  departure  from  accepted 
values. 

Consequently  it  has  seemed  to  the  editors  that  this  is  a 
favorable  period  at  which  to  put  forth  a  work  which  shall 
embody  late  results  in  both  Biblical  Archeology  and  Critical 
Inquiry  without  the  prospect  of  its  almost  immediately  becom- 
ing out  of  date  in  either  department. 

Excellent  work  has  been  done  in  some  larger  Dictionaries  of 
the  Bible  recently  published,  but  their  size  and  price  put  them 


THE    TEMPLE    BIBLE   DICTIONARY 


beyond  the  reach  of  many  who  are  keenly  alive  to  the  neces- 
sity for  competent  and  trustworthy  guidance  in  the  study  of 
the  Scriptures. 

The  Editors  therefore  believe  that  there  is  room  for  a  Dic- 
tionary such  as  this,  which,  leaving  aside  all  that  is  merely 
theoretical  and  speculative,  presents  simply,  shortly  and 
clearly  the  state  of  ascertained  knowledge  on  the  subjects | 
dealt  with,  at  a  price  which  brings  the  latest  results  of 
scholarly  investigation  within  the  reach  of  every  earnest 
student  of  the  Bible,  and  which  for  the  working  clergyman, 
the  local  preacher,  the  class  leader,  the  Sunday  School  teacher, 
the  travelling  missionary,  offers  an  indispensable  vade-mecum 
of  scientific  and  critical  knowledge  about  Biblical  lands,  peo- 
ples and  literature. 

THE  BOOK  ITSELF: 

The  volume  is  a  singularly  handsome  one  of  eleven  hundred 
pages,  9  inches  by  6/^  in  size,  bound  in  dark  maroon  cloth, 
with  gilt  back  and  tinted  top  and  edges.  There  are  over  500 
explanatory  illustrations  —  many  from  entirely  new  photo- 
graphs— and  eight  colored  maps. 

A  sensible  series  of  ingenious  contractions,  not  only  of 
proper  names,  but  of  ordinary  words  also,  has  made  it  possible 
to  pack  information  very  much  closer  in  these  pages  than  is 
usual  elsewhere. 

The  Dictionary  to  the  Apocrypha  is  in  a  section  by  itself, 
with  a  special  introductory  article.  There  are  also  special 
articles  on:  The  Influence  of  the  Bible  on  English  Literature; 
The  New  Testament  Apocrypha;  Apocalyptic  Literature;  The 
Targums;  Versions  of  the  Scripture;  Philo  Judasus;  Josephus; 
and  The  Language  of  Palestine  in  the  time  of  Christ;  while 
in  the  Text  of  the  Dictionary  everything  possible  has  been 
done  by  the  use  of  thin  opaque  paper,  appropriate  sizes  of 
type,  and  a  serviceable  system  of  cross-references  to  make  the 
book  more  legible,  more  intelligible,  and  more  generally  com- 
fortable to  read  than  any  other  book  of  its  kind  in  existence. 

It  is  the  devout  hope  of  the  Editors  that  at  last  a  Bible 
Dictionary  has  been  produced  which  will  be  the  standard  of 
its  kind  for  many  years  to  come,  both  as  to  fullness  and  erudi- 
tion of  contents  and  to  mechanical  excellence  of  bookmaking. 


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